


Don't Ruffle The Feathers Of The Archmagus

by elzierav



Category: RWBY
Genre: All Kinds of Magic, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Badass Gays, Everyone Is Gay, Everyone Needs A Hug, Everyone is Badass, F/F, Fantasy, High Fantasy, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Monsters, OT3, Qrow Branwen Needs a Hug, Qrow Branwen is a badass, Royalty, Tournaments, Witches, Wizards, Worldbuilding, medieval-ish setting, whitley is a heathen from hell, why are all the tags in W
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24153727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav
Summary: An Archmagus has enough power to make or break a Kingdom. He serves as His Majesty's personal mage, his authority is second to the King’s only, and even what he whispers into his King's ear is everything. To the general surprise, Archmagus Ozpin's dying words named infamous chaos magic practitioner Qrow Branwen as his successor. Sir Clover Ebi, Captain of the Royal Guard, still cannot not comprehend why King James Ironwood of Atlas sent him all the way to the Isle of Patch to find Qrow Branwen and escort him to the royal court. But soon, new questions weave into existing mysteries...
Relationships: Clover Ebi/James Ironwood, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi/James Ironwood, Qrow Branwen/James Ironwood, Robyn Hill/Winter Schnee
Comments: 62
Kudos: 83





	1. The Captain, the Mage, and their Hounds

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: mentioned character death, blood.

The night was thick as stew, sticky as bone marrow. The howls of distant owls echoed ominously through the wet air after the storm. Under the mourning moonlight, the tall stone wall cast a shadow onto the moorlands, onto the sinewy earthy path to the watchtower. On the path galloped a lone stallion, heavy hooves heaving clouds of humid dirt, mounted by a lone knight, the kite shield at his side ornamented with five greyhounds passant on a field of evening blue, the noble crest of House Amin. The shield was dented, the paint scratched, the hounds stained in crusting crimson, but the knight took no notice. His helm was securely fastened on his head, visor down, and one may wonder if he could hear the crying birds afar, if he could even see the uneven road under the dim moonlit sky. 

But while the black eyes of his black steed stared down at the path, all Sir Amin’s eyes could see was the red, the red staining the green, over and over again in his memories. The Archmagus his party was escorting was attacked. The flash of silver horns piercing through metal, fabric, leather. The stench of bloodstained fangs tearing through armour as if through parchment. The orb of protective light the injured Archmagus cast on Sir Amin so he could escape, knowing full well that he’d be the only one emerging alive.

And all Sir Amin’s ears could hear were the last words of Archmagus Ozpin, his last wish, his last plea, echoing over and over like a ticking clock. A single name. A successor. 

The young knight dismounted rapidly, sand and pebbles squeaking under his metal shoes. The watchtower was empty, the foul smell of blood wafting from behind the door left ajar, clumps of jet black fur stuck between stones, fragments of armour littering the floor. The creature that murdered the Archmagus had been through there already. 

Head held high, sword and shield in hand, Sir Amin looked away from the steps stained with trails of red already drying to brown as he ascended the spiral staircase to the top of the tower, weakly illuminated by the dwindling light of dying torches. He paused briefly as he reached the top, the cold night air whipping at the plates of his armour. On the mast, two flags hung tiredly in the wind above an extinguished fire. Taking a deep breath, the knight took down one of the flags to hang another one. His hands, gloved in chainmail, dragged the old rope beaten down by the winds and rain until the new flag took place atop the pole. 

Then, lifting his visor to wipe the sweat off his brow, he found a nearby torch and lit the fire. The flames illuminated the large flags, rendering them recognisable even from a distance.

Identifying the signal, the next watchtower along the wall lit up. And the next one. And the next one. 

And then, each tower carried a fire, turning the wall to a trail of lights. And from each tower hung a pair of flags. Beside the banner bearing the sigil of King James of Atlas, the cerulean spear over a round shield, where the cogs of Ozpin’s emblem on a green field used to hang now floated a new flag, blood-red marked with the black, feathered symbol of the new Archmagus: the coat of arms of House Branwen. 

* * *

Sir Clover Ebi, Captain of the Royal Guard, still could not comprehend why King James Ironwood of Atlas sent him so far from the Capital, all the way to the Isle of Patch, to find this new Branwen Archmagus and escort him to the royal court. Certainly, he could see why his talents matched the mission at hand, but wasn’t the role of the Captain of the Royal Guard to remain at his monarch’s side, protecting him at all times, at all costs? After a week of travelling, Sir Ebi already missed the proximity of his king, the trust they placed in one another, the solemn sense of certainty in each of James’s orders that made Clover want to follow him everywhere, to do anything for him, to lay down his life for him, to travel to the end of the world for him. 

Thus he found himself at the end of the world, within the stone castle of the Duke of Patch. 

The hospitality of Lord Taiyang Xiao Long, Duke of Patch, was more than satisfactory. In the large dining hall, between the chimneys surrounded with diverse hunting trophies, throned the long dinner table, lit with candles reflecting off the alluring sheen of grease covering the spicy Southern dishes, largely unfamiliar to Clover’s palate albeit not unpleasantly so. The tender meat of an unknown bird, practically melting onto his tongue, momentarily distracted him from his thoughts and the ongoing conversation. 

“We’ve only had sparse news from Uncle Qrow since he exiled himself to the Isle of Harbinger,” said Lady Ruby Rose, second daughter to Lord Xiao Long. “He occasionally sends a raven with a brief letter, which suggests he must be busy with his magical adventures there.”

“My brother-in-law retired on Harbinger to meditate since his sister’s disappearance, he lives as a hermit there,” Taiyang amended warily, taking a small sip from his ornate cup before reclining back onto his imposing, uncomfortable-looking sculpted wooden chair at the end of the table. “I can’t tell you for sure if he’ll be willing to leave for the Capital with you and become the new Archmagus.”

“Archmagus Ozpin’s last wish was for Mage Qrow Branwen to take his place,” Clover replied, “surely I can convince him to honour a respected fellow Mage’s last wish.” 

“Good luck with that,” Lord Xiao Long exhaled.

“I will sail there at the earliest hour in the morrow, as we cannot waste any time while the Royal Court is without an Archmagus. And would be grateful if I could borrow a boat, my Lord,” the Captain says. 

“I will gladly give you a boat, but forgive me if none of my men can escort you there. The river is dangerous to navigate around these places, and dark superstitions surround the Isle of Harbinger.”

Harbinger lay just down the fjord from Patch, however while the latter housed the Xiao Long fortress, a military stronghold and a place of trade between the Kingdom of Atlas and the lands south of the sea, the former was barren and uninhabited, for reasons that remained largely unknown.

“People around here say that Harbinger is a cursed place,” Ruby’s sister spoke in a conspiratorial tone, excited lights shining in her violet irises. “That a lost sailor once made a pact with a demon there, and liberated a host of ungodly creatures. That monsters dwell at the bottom of maelstroms that surround it, and even if one can sail past them, the animals that haunt the shore are nothing like elsewhere, corrupted by dark magic...”

“Enough, Yang,” Taiyang yawned. “Please do not scare our guest.”

“There is no need to worry, Lord Xiao Long. My king trusts me to handle the situation, therefore I am not afraid. I am an experienced sailor, and willing to try my luck.”

“I am aware,” the Duke answered. “House Ebi hails from the coastal city of Argus after all, a fishing port weathered by the storms by the Western Sea. I believe I met your lady mother at a tourney, many years ago. An exquisite woman, with fingers as skilled with the fishing line as they were on the standing harp. Please send her my greetings if you pass by Argus soon.”

“My post as Captain of the Guard requires me to be by my king at all times, unless I am sent on missions by His Majesty. So I regret not being able to visit my hometown as much as I would please.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“On the contrary, my family is greatly honoured that their only son was chosen to lead the Royal Guard, and there’s nothing I’d rather do than serve His Majesty.”

Taiyang twitched tiredly on his chair, beckoning dessert to be served. Clover usually enjoyed this part of the meal, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere, nervously pondering whether the Duke and his daughters noticed the hint of personal feelings accompanying his undying devotion to his king. The younger child shifted on her seat as soon as she finished her fruit tart, awkwardly adjusting her cape behind the tall back of her chair. 

“Father?”

“Yes, Ruby?”

“If he’s not afraid, may I take Sir Ebi to see our gallery of monsters? He should be prepared if he’s going to Harbinger tomorrow.”

“... Yes, dear,” he sighed in defeat after a silence. “You may.”

The young lady mirthfully bounced down her chair before dragging the Captain by the hand down a maze of corridors. The fortress was chaotic and dimly lit, full of low tunnels and uneven stairs built and rebuilt throughout centuries of existence, but Ruby knew the place better than the back of her hand, and Clover could bend under the slanted ceilings, barely keeping up with her rapid pace. 

Soon, they reached a long room decorated with frescoes, each representing creatures with abundant tails, heads, or legs, all sharp claws and deadly fangs bared. While the girl explained the myths surrounding each monster in detail, Clover could only marvel at her enthusiasm, alongside the vivid imagination of those who had come up with such superstitions. He had faced magic in his career, even fought monsters and survived to tell the tale, but what was painted upon these walls appeared more akin to exaggeration. 

“The Isle is hardly an hour by boat from here,” she finished, “but I’ve never seen any of these creatures.”

“But you want to,” he guessed, leaning against the cold painted wall and noticing salty winds whipping at his face. “Are we at sea level?”

“Yes, just behind this door,” she answered, pushing a wooden panel open that led to a small cove, a lone sailing boat chained against the rocks, gently rocked by the tide. 

The sea shimmered like a million mirror shards under the moonlight, and Clover could tell by the wind’s direction the elements were on his side, as if fortune told him he should leave for the Isle of Harbinger immediately.

“Take me with you,” Ruby whispered, but with the echoing rock and the quiet sea, her plea may as well have been a scream. “Please, let’s go, the sea’s good now.”

“I can see that.”

“Please, Sir Ebi. I can be useful, I can sail. I’ve grown up on the sea, just as you did.”

“I can see that,” he repeated, teal eyes observing her easily jumping down the chaos of rocks to untie the boat with practised gestures. “You can be proud of yourself.”

“But you haven’t said yes.”

Drawing a deep breath, he sat down on the flattest rock at her feet. 

“Lady Ruby… why do you want to go?”

“Because I want to see the Isle of Harbinger.”

“But also?”

“Because I want to see my uncle. Yang has told me so much about him, but I was only a child when I last saw him. Then when his sister and Yang’s mother, Lady Raven, disappeared, she was last sighted heading to Harbinger. Uncle Qrow exiled himself there, some say to find her, some say out of guilt, but he was never seen again. And I want to meet him before you immediately take him away to the Capital.”

“But also?”

“I wish Uncle Qrow would take me on as his apprentice.”

And to demonstrate, she raised a hand, swirling rose petals materialising out of thin air and dancing in the winds until they touched the moon-tinted waves and the current washed them away. 

It was beautiful. 

“You’re gods-touched, huh?” he realised.

Gods-touched, blessed with magical abilities, part of that small minority of the population, though they were more likely among noble bloodlines like the Branwen, the Schnees, and the Roses. 

It was beautiful - and yet, Clover could see why she needed to ask her uncle before he left for the royal court. Because compared to children in the Capital, her talent was next to nothing: some could conjure birds with wings of flames, some could cause earthquakes beneath their feet, some could even summon the souls of the deceased. Ruby may have been skilled, but her father was not gods-touched, her mother perished giving birth to her, and in these removed parts of the kingdom she’d never had a magical preceptor - without training, what she could accomplish only paled in comparison to richer, more educated children, and it was unbecoming of a Mage of a great house, let alone the Archmagus himself, to take on a disciple of such lackluster talent.

He could see her courage, her curiosity, her unwavering determination in her silver eyes. But he could also see how disarrayed Lord Taiyang and Lady Yang would be if Ruby didn’t return unscathed, even if she did return at all. And he could see how such an unfortunate event would break the trust between House Xiao Long and the Crown of Atlas, whom Clover represented as Captain of the Guard. 

“Lady Ruby, can I tell you a secret?”

As she leant in closer to hear his whispers, hating himself for each of his actions, he reached behind her for the chains that retained the boat and tied them around her wrist. By the time she fumbled with the binds one-handed, cursing him under her breath, he had already left, unfurling all sails and heading straight toward the Isle of Harbinger. 

He would find a chance to apologise to her, if he was lucky.

* * *

When Sir Ebi reached Harbinger, he couldn’t tell if the day had broken. The Isle remained motionless amidst the fjord that poured itself into the sea, motionless like an island standing against the flow of time. Pebbles on the ground were a kaleidoscope, and everything was symmetric, too symmetric. Flowers came to wither and die before they even blossomed or was it the opposite? He couldn’t tell for sure. But he could move ahead, unaffected by the magic that soaked his surroundings. 

Birds flew back from the wide sky, back onto their branches, back into their eggs just as others hatched and took flight, cutting dark shadows against the silvery mist. An unkindness of ravens? A murder of crows? He didn’t know, but he stepped forward. 

The air smelled of lavender, incense, and something more ominous. 

The fog glistened like crystals, like stars, twinkling eerily, but there was so much fog he could hardly even see his hands. 

Until the birds all flew away at once, and he turned around. 

To face a gigantic two-headed hound, towering menacingly over him, its breath ghosting over each exposed inch of Clover’s skin. The single drop of saliva dripping off the beast’s lip was the size of the knight’s fist. 

He brandished his shield in defense, unsheathing his sword reflexively. And just his luck, a beam of sunlight - or was it moonlight? - reflected off his shield, blinding one of the creature’s immense eyes. The giant canine lets out a yelp, loud enough for the ground and the vegetation to vibrate in its wake, clearing the mist around them.

And when the fog dissipated, before the Captain’s eyes stood a silhouette cloaked in a tattered crimson cape, raising an unflinching hand onto one of the creature’s two snouts that effortlessly reduced it the immense canine relieved pants, happy yaps, and bushy tail wags. Only when the panic had entirely left the creature’s expression did the man turn around, mesmerising vermillion eyes shooting Clover their darkest glare.

“You scared my good boy Zwei,” Qrow Branwen scowled.


	2. Northward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is just flirting… and exposition… flirtsposition?   
> Actual warning: brief mention of implied domestic abuse

The boat ride away from the Isle of Harbinger was counted in many legends as turbulent, treacherous as the elements unleashed on whomever dared near the cursed island, as multitudes of maelstroms and marine monsters awaited the hapless traveller at every corner. 

However, on that fateful morning, the sea was flat as a mirror. 

The ride to Harbinger, Clover had to admit, had been more eventful. But sailing back? There had been no wind or tide to push them. Neither backward, nor forward. Instead, the Captain’s rowing was the only force steering the boat northward, away from Harbinger, and the oars meeting the water were the only disturbance rippling the surface’s perfect mirror, upon which playful gold and cerulean clouds reflected over the backdrop of the clear sunrise. 

The hermit Mage, sitting on the boat facing the knight, only watched in silence while Sir Ebi worked. Dark red eyes stood out amongst his pale face invaded by overgrown raven hair, seemingly appreciative of the Captain’s bulging biceps as he rowed, the increasing heat having forced him to discard his armour and roll up his sleeves.

“If you’re such a powerful wizard, couldn’t you help a little? Conjure up a northward current, or something?”

Qrow’s magic had been described as probability manipulation, and while Clover couldn’t know the extent of such a rare power he guessed that making a current pushing them in a certain direction more likely was well within the range of the Mage’s capabilities.

“Why do you think the water’s like this?” Qrow taunted back with a small shrug, looking down at the perfectly flat surface while the knight swore he detected an almost mischievous glint in those crimson irises.

“Care to tell me why it’s like this?”

“No,  _ you  _ tell me what you want from me, and if I decide I can trust you, then I might conjure a current, as you say. If not, I’ll call upon a storm that will take us right back to where we started on Harbinger so I can rub my face between the two heads of the dog again, I’m sure he misses me already.”

Clover let out a small sigh under the strain of the effort. Qrow folded up a leg against his slender, defined torso visible against his worn linen shirt, his other leg outstretched in the Captain’s direction, seemingly going on endlessly and only making it harder for Sir Ebi to concentrate.

“I told you. Archmagus Ozpin named you as his successor.”

“But why me? Didn’t he have a designated successor in his disciple? What was his name… the farm hand...”

“Wizard Oscar Pine.”

“So… why not him?”

“Perhaps because he’s a fifteen-year-old child?”

“I had already been the Mage of House Branwen for two years at that age.”

Rumours said that was achieved through the twins murdering their grandfather and then-Mage of their family, making Qrow the most senior and skilled male wizard of his family even at the young age of thirteen, and therefore earning him the title of Mage of his ancient, noble bloodline. 

“Therefore, perhaps because you’re a prodigy.”

“Are you certain there’s no other prodigies?”

“Are _you_ certain you can’t take a compliment?” Clover retorted, nearly immediately regretting the guilt he caused as Qrow blinked nervously, running a hand through his hirsute hair. “If Archmagus Ozpin decided so, there must be a reason.”

“And of course, as a perfect soldier, you have to obey orders without even wondering why.”

“Mage Branwen, I surmised you would at least honour the dying words of a fellow Mage and friend, out of respect if not anything else…”

“How did he die?”

“... What?”

“How did Oz die?”

It was Clover’s turn to shift awkwardly in his seat, gathering his thoughts to answer the abrupt question.

“He was leading a party to visit Prince Ghira Belladonna up north by the Wall, and they were ambushed by a Breacher. One of my men was part of his escort. He was the only one who made it out alive.”

“A Breacher? I’ve been away for what, three years? And the Breach in the wall is still big enough for monsters from the north to run through? Hasn’t your king been doing anything about that?”

“That was the purpose of Ozpin’s visit. Obtaining the Belladonnas’ help to seal the Breach. Carrying out any repairs that far from the Capital and any large city would be very costly for the Crown, without their support.”

“And why did Oz have to come in person? Couldn’t he project himself with the Camera Obscura?”

“Relations between the Crown and the Belladonnas have been… tense as of late. His Majesty sent the Archmagus in person as a sign of trust.”

An irate light set the Mage’s crimson irises ablaze.

“A sign of trust? So you want me to follow in the footsteps of an Archmagus who trusted his king with his life, and died because of it? You want me to trust a king who broke his trust with the Belladonnas because he lets the Faunus villages up north be massacred by the Breachers? To trust a king who probably didn’t do anything to better the treatment of Faunus in the rest of Atlas?”

The Captain gaped, struck by hermit’s entirely too fast, entirely too irreverent deductions for several seconds, too long seconds. 

“We’re doing things… or at least, we’re trying,” he finally answered. “My knight who escorted Ozpin up North is a Faunus. Sir Marrow Amin of the Royal Guard. He’s one of my best.”

“So things have changed,” Qrow spoke thoughtfully, fiddling with the tangles of his beard. “And I suppose the king really is determined to tolerate me as his Archmagus, if he sent his guard captain himself to find me on Harbinger.”

“Mage Branwen, tales of your unrivalled chaos magic have travelled across all of Atlas and beyond. Because whatever part of your family’s history has tarnished your reputation is something His Majesty can look past. King James would do anything for the good of his Kingdom, he’d take you on as his Archmagus if that cost him his own reputation, if he thinks you’re the right one for the position.”

“You sound like you would do anything for King James,” Qrow tilted his head slightly, vermillion eyes boring deep through the knight. 

“I would,” he replied without missing a beat, his voice steady as steel. 

And it was true, for many reasons.

“But you don’t have to,” Clover amended, “or at least, not from now. You’ve clearly been through a lot, even before you chose self-exile. You should take your time to think. His Majesty won’t send you to the Breach to meet the Belladonnas immediately, he wouldn’t repeat the same mistake and lose another Archmagus so soon. In fact, he won’t even meet you in front of the royal court immediately. He wants to talk to you privately first, and then only when we’ve gained your trust and you accept the position, the ceremony will be held to grant you the title of Archmagus.”

“... You, Sir Clover Ebi, you and your king are a mystery.”

“Because you can’t read my thoughts?”

The Captain, not being gods-touched himself, had heard that wizards had a certain degree of telepathy and mind-manipulation, but he couldn’t tell what form it took, couldn’t tell to what extent one’s deepest thoughts were safe from magic. 

“Because you actually want to earn my trust.”

Something about those words hurt. That someone, especially someone like Qrow would default to not expecting such basic courtesy, that hurt. Clover swallowed thickly before he could reply.

“An Archmagus has enough power to make or break a Kingdom. His authority is second to the king’s only, and even then his counsel is everything to his king. His Majesty and Archmagus Ozpin built trust in one another through the years, and even so there were schemes of Ozpin we still haven’t uncovered. His Majesty wants full trust between himself and his new Archmagus, no secrets, no lies. He wants someone he can count on, and he knows trust is a two-way street.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“How so?”

“I don’t remember… it’s been three years at least. Many winds have flown under the Arch, in three years. It’s been too long since I’ve heard anyone say anything. Too long since I’ve even heard the sound of a human voice other than my own.”

“But you have time to get used to it, before we get to the Capital. We have time to talk, if you like. Especially since this boat is not going anywhere...”

“Shhh.”

“All right, I talk too much...”

“Yes, you do.”

Qrow distractedly tapped his fingers against the side of the boat. And a gentle breeze blew through the sails, pushing their ship northward. 

* * *

“Aren’t we sailing all the way to the Capital? Why are we on foot now?”

Ignoring his companion’s complaints, the guard led the way through the woods, shield in hand, sword clearing through the sharp brambles and low branches that cluttered their path. 

“We’re not going to the Capital now. His Majesty isn’t at the Palace currently. He’s hunting in the Emerald Forest, and we’ll meet him at his camp, away from the court.”

“How far have we still got to go?”

“A couple of days? The sailing part was so much faster for the return ride, thanks to your magic.”

“But walking will be just as slow as on your way there.”

“Do you ever stop being so cynical?”

“Not when I’m this cold.”

“It’s not that cold.”

“Says the one who’s ripped off his shirt sleeves to show off his pretty arms.”

Sir Ebi chuckled at the remark before switching to a more pragmatic topic.

“We should set up camp soon, the sun is setting.”

“That I can see, and there’s nothing I can do with my magic to stop that. If I could, it wouldn’t be so cold, trust me.”

“But if you’re such a great wizard, couldn’t you make a fire or something? I’ll be on the hunt for dinner.”

Clover drew his crossbow from one of his many travel bags, advancing carefully through the undergrowth between the tall, silent trees.

“What do you think I am?” Qrow sneered back. “Some lowly common fire mage? Chaos magic is the manipulation of probabilities of outcomes in the universe, not breathing fire like a vulgar rock dragon!”

“So… you can’t. Guess we’ll just have to eat cold food and huddle for warmth then.”

The Captain had circled around on his short round to playfully bump his strong shoulder against Qrow’s, that very same shoulder the Branwen had appeared to take a liking to. The knight’s hands rubbed the Mage’s arms carefully, in an attempt to ascertain how much the other man was cold and shivering. Magic was known to heavily strain life energy, and Clover couldn’t tell how much pushing their boat forward had drawn upon Qrow’s magic supply. But the Mage immediately recoiled at the touch, starkly reminding Clover his travelling partner hadn’t been used to human contact for years…

Stepping back, the Captain tried to meet Qrow’s glare and utter an apology, but the wizard only rolled his eyes with a silent sigh, glancing skyward - and suddenly lightning from above struck a tree by their side, leaving them unscathed while starting a bright, boisterous, burning fire.

***

Qrow’s magic was wondrous and versatile, and slowly Clover began to understand why Archmagus Ozpin had chosen such a successor. If anyone could ever pretend to understand the intricate clockwork of Ozpin’s mind, anyway. Still, there were certain feats Mage Branwen’s peerless abilities could not allow him to perform alone, and required another person’s help.

“Why don’t you ask Melanie and Miltia? They seemed to take a liking to you,” the Captain said, letting himself tumble onto one of the inn’s warm beds. 

“I don’t want to let them on, they’re not my type.”

“What about Miss Malachite, the innkeeper? You’re too young to be her type.”

“I don’t trust her to hold a blade so close to my neck.”

“I can understand. But you trust me?”

“I trust you’ve not travelled all the way to Patch and then Harbinger and endured my company all the way back to Mantle just to slit my throat in some inn three hours’ walk away from King James’s camp.”

“That’s a good point,” Clover recognises. “But there was nothing to  _ endure  _ about your company. I know what the people say about you, I...”

“Will you cut my hair or just sit there and talk? Because if not I could just leave it as is.”

“You are  _ not  _ leaving it as is. You are meeting his Majesty tomorrow morning, and you should at least look presentable.”

“If you insist,” Qrow pouted, begrudgingly handing the knight a pair of scissors.

“Where did you find these?” the Captain asked out of curiosity, tentatively fidgeting with the Mage’s tangled hair.

“The Malachites may have accidentally misplaced their scissors when I arrived here. They were on a dinner table.”

“Could you make a hairbrush accidentally appear too? There’s no way I can cut your hair when it’s as entangled as a bird’s nest.”

“Are there any birds nesting in there?”

“I prefer not to know.”

“Try the drawers by your bed? I don’t know.”

Clover obeyed, opening a draw, then another before stumbling upon the item of his desire, just his luck. 

“Can you brush your hair on your own, or should I do that for you?”

“I’m afraid I may have forgotten how to, after so many years as a hermit.”

The knight let out a wordless huff, to which Qrow grumbles: 

“Come on, it’s not even dirty, I literally just washed my hair.”

For an instant, Clover pondered where to start disentangling the bird’s nest. And the next second, he was hard at work, thick soot-black hair peppered with silver turning soft and silky the firm pulls of the hairbrush. And he continued to brush, ignoring the hermit’s grunts and protests, until the endless, supple locks shone like satin and flowed like water between his fingers. 

By the time the raven mane was orderly enough to be cut, a pang of regret had taken place in the Captain’s heart at the thought of discarding such lustrous hair that would make many an aristocrat of the Atlesian court jealous. He should ask Qrow for confirmation, but by that time the Mage had already half-dozed off, sighing in contentment under the careful grooming, the gentle pressure and brief tugs at his scalp. 

The sharp  _ click  _ of the scissors as Clover barely trimming off some split ends brought Qrow back to reality however, and the knight’s breath hitched as the sight of the other man startled awake, vermillion eyes blinking rapidly and rather adorably. 

“What’s the fashionable haircut in Atlas these days?” Qrow prompted softly. “Is it like your hair?”

“My hair is hardly a reference point. The Royal Guards are expected to wear helmets most hours of the day.”

“Are you saying you usually experience a furious case of hat hair all day long? That sounds quite cute.”

“Are you regretting asking me to cut your hair? Would you rather do it yourself with your magic?”

“Even if I projected myself out of my body to stand behind my own head and used a gravity charm to lift the scissors, that would be a lot of effort to end up with a hairstyle that may have been fashionable three years ago.”

“Thus you trust me with choosing your hairstyle.”

“Do I have a choice?” Qrow pouted.

Attempting his best at ignoring the heat ascending to his cheeks as a result of the Mage’s dramatically endearing expression, Clover focused on the cold scissors between his fingers, on the precision of his handiwork, the regular tones of snip, snip, snip as locks of ebony hair dropped soundlessly onto the floor. 

“Not if you want to look acceptable before His Majesty.”

“Hmmm. You clearly care more than I do.”

Snip. Snip. Snip. 

“Aren’t you going to come around and cut these strands in the front?” the Mage mumbled after a dozen more snips. 

“You will find they are quite in style at the Atlesian court at present.”

Snip. Snip.

“Is it in style to have one’s hair in one’s eyes, and forgo of visibility for the sake of fashion?”

“A fashion popularised by Her Majesty, Queen Winter of Atlas herself.”

“King James married Winter Schnee?!”

Snip.

“I think we’re done here,” Sir Ebi sighed, setting down the scissors on the wooden table. 

Qrow’s diaphanous hands rummaged tentatively through his hair before the knight could withdraw his hands. At the barest sensation of warm, calloused digits brushing against the back of his hand, the Captain took a precipitant step back, simultaneously admiring his work already tousled by the Mage’s long, thin, ivory fingers. The edges were jagged, salt and pepper strands standing rebelliously. 

Eventually, the feathery hair flowed down between Qrow’s fingertips as he let go of the back strands to run his fingers through the bangs Clover had artfully left on his forehead. With a swift gesture of his hand, the future Archmagus swept the long, lone locks back with the almost animalistic grace of a bird’s wing before taking flight. But lifting the curtain of hair revealed deep wine-red eyes that stared at the knight hesitantly, as if hardly even hoping to find approval in the man’s teal glare. The Captain inhaled sharply before daring to break the fragile silence.

“This is good too… either with your hair swept back, or without...”

“You seem like the kind of person who likes everything,” Qrow teased, letting his ashen bangs fall back onto his forehead, the pearly glow of his features only enhanced by the sudden contrast. “Unless you are just being polite.”

“I can assure you, Mage Branwen, that this is not the case and my words are sincere.”

“You like everything about your King though, and everything about my hair.”

Sir Clover Ebi of Argus, Captain of the Royal Guard, was a mess, and of course the Mage had right through it, faster than the knight himself realised. Just their luck. 

“I don’t like... that your beard doesn’t match your hairstyle,” Clover stuttered stupidly, for utter lack of a better comeback. 

“Understood, Captain,” the hermit deadpanned, “I’ll see what I can do with that.”

“If I may be of any help...”

“You seem to enjoy this, so please help yourself.”

“Only if you’re comfortable with me holding a blade up to your neck.”

“Please go ahead already. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, so let’s get this done and catch some rest.”

“If you insist.”

The guard braced himself before taking the task into his hands. He’d noticed every time Qrow flinched and recoiled at his touch, but also how much more relaxed he became at each tentative, inhaling sharply every time Clover’s fingers mapped his ivory throat, but attempting his best not to recoil away. In fact, the knight had also noticed that…

“For someone who chose self-isolation for years, you’re surprisingly easy to talk to.”

“That so?” Qrow grumbled with difficulty as Clover worked on the side of his cheek.

“I mean, not right now… but in general, I find this rather remarkable.”

The Mage only managed to mutter a wordless answer.

“Now that you can’t talk and therefore can’t deflect,” the knight continued as he moved onto the other man’s jaw, “I suppose I can reiterate that your company is not a burden, and on the contrary greatly valued, even if we don’t yet know why Ozpin chose you in particular. I don’t care that some say your bloodline is cursed, because you and your sister were both gods-touched and both pursued Mage careers instead of producing male offspring, letting your ancient family name die with you. So many families have risen, and so many have fallen throughout the centuries, names are just names, and I couldn’t care less. 

I don’t care that some say your chaos magic caused your sister to birth a daughter rather than a son, which influenced her decision to leave Lord Xiao Long to return to the path of a Mage. Or that some say you blame yourself for it, you have every right to, and yet you have every right not to, and I will abstain from judging you either way. 

I don’t care that some say Wizard Raven Branwen disappeared in suspect circumstances, and that means her twin may be unreliable too. And I know the King won’t care either. I was the son of a small aristocratic family under the banner of House Sleet when they led an uprising against the crown, and yet His Majesty took me in as a squire, as a friend, almost as a brother after he’d quelled the rebellion. James taught me that actions matter more than names and blood ties, and what matters most isn’t the alleged curse on your bloodline, but the legacy you’ll leave as his Archmagus.”

“And yet... you think the king will care about a shave and a haircut?” the Mage quipped back, softly pushing the blade away from his skin to examine Clover’s completed handiwork.

All Qrow could see at the moment was a deformed, blurred reflection off a piece of Clover’s armour they’d brushed until it shone to employ as a makeshift mirror. But the Captain could witness the real proportions, the sharp angles of Branwen’s chiselled jawline, the gentle curve of his shapely cheekbones, the perfect almond shape of his mesmerising crimson eyes and how it complemented the subtle warmth of his ivory skin, the silver-streaked charcoal of his raven hair… Too long seconds elapse, lost in silence, lost in eternity before the knight remembered the question addressed to him.

“Mage Branwen… I think His Majesty will be more than satisfied.”

* * *

Through the tall glass window, light drifted down obliquely onto the library floor, onto the golden ornamentations on the backs of leather-bound volumes atop their majestic oak shelves, and onto the young lady’s white hair, illuminating the strands almost silver. On an armchair by the chimney, she sat pensively, a heavy grimoire opened over her regally crossed legs. One of alabaster hands rested against the rich velvet of her royal blue skirts, embroidered with silver threads and delicate rubies, while her other fingers obliviously traced a line written in barely decipherable scribbles on the parchment of the book. 

On one of the adorned ebony chairs next to the long table, a younger boy was equally absorbed in his readings, his features similar to hers even though even more pallid as if he’d hardly ever seen the daylight outside. His silver brow furrowed in concentration as he attempted to reproduce an elaborate pentacle from the pages of his volume using his fingertips against the dust on the table. Amidst the incomplete glyph was a butterfly, wings as white as snow fluttering nervously as if trapped within the spell the boy struggled to elaborate and maintain.

“Master Whitley!” a stern voice commanded from the door, shattering the silence in the library and drawing both teenagers’ focus away from their studies. 

“Yes, father,” the boy drawled, leaning backward and artfully wrapping an arm around the back of his chair to stare at the newcomer. 

Salt and pepper streaked the man’s hair, more salt than pepper as of recent years, yet nothing dulled the glare in his cerulean eyes, sharper than the sharpest sword’s edge. Without hesitation, he set down his hand against the table, the clamour of his metal rings hitting the solid wood echoing through the dusty air, saturated with musky scents of leather and parchment.

Within that fraction of second, both children flinched, and Whitley’s concentration faltered. The butterfly soared above in a desperate attempt to break free, before the boy’s long, bony fingers tightened, and the immaterial prison around the insect’s flight narrowed down again. 

“If you hadn’t been so  _ sloppy  _ with your magic,” his father berated, “if you’d been as skilled as your sisters, maybe Ozpin would have chosen you as his successor instead of the infamous Qrow Branwen.”

“If you’d let me practice instead of interrupting me,” the boy growled in frustration, flexing his fingers as the pale-winged creature fluttered increasingly frantically, as if bruised and battered by the rough edges of the spell.

“Or perhaps if the King were ready to amend archaic laws and allow a woman to become Mage of her House and therefore eligible for the title of Archmagus,” Whitley’s sister muttered under her breath, distractedly flicking through the pages of her hefty spell book.

“Dearest daughter, please enlighten us with your thoughts aloud, if you please.”

While he spoke, their father’s fingers drummed against the wood, and while his hand never lifted off the table, the young woman’s digits instinctively flew to her cheekbone. She nervously twirled a lock of silver hair between her slender fingers, grateful for her handmaid’s excellent work that morning with her hairdo. White strands fell like a thin veil over her fine features on one side of her face, concealing said cheekbone from public view.

“Mayhaps the King and his late Archmagus also wished to honour other families than ours,” she revised carefully. “The crown has already shown favours toward the Schnee bloodline by wedding our lady sister, and other noble houses would not appreciate another Schnee being chosen as his Archmagus.”

Her brother barely paid attention to her discourse, instead experimentally opening and closing his palm, the fragile wings of the animal barely having enough space to move when the boy’s fingertips almost met. 

“Mayhaps, Lady Weiss… but that Mage Branwen is the last of his accursed name,” her father retorted icily. “His sister, that ungrateful wench who left her husband and her daughter to pursue her selfish magical career, disappeared three years ago. There are none left of his blood that would be pleased by such an appointment. In fact, most of the court would be… relieved if another came to take his place.” 

“Oscar Pine was supposed to be next in line,” Whitley pointed out, “but Ozpin didn’t choose him either.”

“Exactly, dearest son,” their father jubilated. “Which means that Pine child doesn’t have Ozpin’s blessing, not any more than you do.”

“What… are you expecting from me, father?” the slightest tremor resided in the boy’s youthful voice when he finally spoke.

Sky blue eyes narrowing in focus, Weiss seized the occasion, discreetly lifting two fingers from the pages of her book to point them at the butterfly. Immediately, the pallid, almost translucent wings flapped with renewed energy to break free of their invisible prison.

But the older man’s eyes weren’t riveted on his son and Mage of his House, nor on his daughter whose beauty, manners, and magical abilities were renown through the Royal Court. But on the puny butterfly, the fragile, filthy insect vermin that dared invade his most-prized library. 

“What am I expecting of you, dear children?” he mused intently at both of the magical siblings. 

The lord’s glare was but light, light reflecting from the window off his piercing eyes, light refracted by the butterfly’s iridescent wings… but that light carried weight, and the pressure on the children’s frail shoulders was palpable through the silent room. 

The lord’s glare carried weight, and Weiss dropped her lifted fingers. 

The lord’s glare carried weight, and Whitley closed his hand into a fist.

In the subsequent absence of a flying butterfly to consider, Lord Jacques Schnee’s eyes finally dropped back to his only son. 

“What I am expecting of you? What can I make you do now for the good of our family? That, Mage Whitley, is the right question to ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we’ll meet King James and see A LOT more of Qrow’s magic at work…


	3. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Qrow flexes sooooo haaaard hoping his boyfriends will notice him  
> Warnings: blood, mentions of animal death

The future Archmagus had been constantly distracted by Sir Ebi’s words. He’d been distracted, especially by the notion that the Captain himself had been deceptively easy to talk to. He’d been almost too distracted to note the ominous sense that something was wrong. 

Almost. 

As soon as they set foot in the clearing amidst the crimson-tinted forest where the dark blue tents of the King’s campment stood, the Mage sensed something was wrong. Ominous magical energy fizzled through the air, and tingles trickled down his spine as though he were being watched. He turned to stare over his shoulder, prompting Clover to pause in his steps, lifting a hand to his sword’s hilt at his waist. In the distance, birds squawked, but the Mage’s eyes couldn’t identify the avians amidst the thick canopy of blood-coloured leaves. The ominous cries didn’t help shake the feeling that something was wrong.

The metallic clangs of two dozen foot soldiers patrolling and shuffling among their ranks as Clover hailed them covered the forest’s natural sounds. Human shouts, shodded hooves, barking hounds echoed in the distance, signalling the return of the King’s hunting party. Scampering off among the crackling dry leaves, a squire rushed off to inform his monarch of his visitors’ arrival. A young herald lifted his trumpet to announce the presence of Captain Ebi and Mage Branwen. But Qrow lifted his hand to interrupt him. Because something was wrong.

And suddenly, everything went wrong.

Marching with the synchrony of a single man, the garrison charged. All bows loaded, all spears and halberds pointed forward. Past Qrow and Clover, and toward the King’s returning party. Before the Mage could react, the Captain had dashed ahead to stop the soldiers. He slammed his kite shield into one of the men to disarm him of his lance, before swiveling around in one smooth motion to knock down another man with the butt of the polearm. 

Grunting as he stored his shield behind his back to draw his longsword with his free hand, Clover blocked an incoming downward strike before swapping his grip on his blade and stabbing the pommel at full force into an approaching adversary’s abdomen. Metal clinked against metal as the impact rebounded on the man’s chainmail armour, causing him to stagger in his step, breath cut short, but not for long until he charged again straight ahead, advancing unhindered like an automaton. 

Busy deflecting multiple thrusts with a twirl of his lance, the Captain failed to notice the opponent behind him… until the man slid on a patch of mud and fell face first in a loud collision between steel armour and leaf-covered ground. Turning around, Clover noticed magic sizzling within Qrow’s palms as his eyes glowed a dangerous tone of red, a raspy murmur escaping his lips. 

“Get out of the way...”

“With all due respect -” Sir Ebi protested. 

“Find the King and bring him to safety!” the Mage managed to utter between gritted teeth under the strain that summoning his magic required. 

After a beat of hesitation, Clover dashed away from Qrow’s field of vision, and the relieved Mage set his powers loose. Sir Ebi was undoubtedly a formidable fighter, but that was hardly enough to contend with two dozen fully armed men. Not with the Captain trying his best not to kill or injure his King’s own troops. And not when said troops seemed inhabited by some external force that kept pulling their strings like a mysterious puppeteer. In these circumstances, Clover’s presence in the field of action of Qrow’s chaos magic had been more of a liability than an asset. Crimson sparks straying from his palm, the Archmagus swept a fluid arc with his hand, eliciting a powerful gust of wind that knocked over multiple tents and covered the attacking soldiers with the thick fabrics and rough ropes. 

But even blinded, even entangled in heavy tents, the soldiers marched forward, moved by the same mystical force. Unfazed by the persistence of the possessed men, the Mage called down lightning on a nearby tree, dispatching a flock of screeching white birds into the cloudy sky. Flames bloomed around the tall trunk, before a small tornado of Qrow’s making swirled around them, capturing them, taming them. His cape billowing in the wind, his feet levitating off the ground as his irises burned a brighter sanguine shade, he caught the fiery vertex within his bare hands, before tossing it straight at the puppeted garrison. The cloth covering the soldiers caught ablaze, suffocating the soldiers beneath and subduing them without burning them through their armour. Before the fire could deal any more damage, Qrow lowered his hand, and the rain began to fall. 

The rain fell, and the Mage landed back on the ground, facing the bodies of collapsed but alive soldiers between the extinguished fire and the scattered leaves. The show was over, but only then did his hard work start. His mind spread out like a blanket over the clearing, sensing the magical presence that kept the guards’ minds captive, even in their unconscious state. The mind-controlling enchantment had the complexity of ancient spells developed throughout the centuries and recounted in the dusty old grimoires of archaic magical bloodlines, yet their intricate weaving had a raw edge as if each line of the immaterial mind traps were hastily crafted with still-incandescent silver. 

Qrow’s mind caressed each line, carefully as if to avoid getting burnt, until he captured the geometry of the glyph, the way the facets endlessly echoed one another like the inside of a white, too white, too bright geode. Until his wandering chaos magic turbulently propagated through the geode like ink diffusing through water, finding a weakness, finding a crack from which he could start breaking the enchantment. 

The puppeteer’s magic was methodical, geometric, symmetric… Qrow’s was haphazard like branching lightning, like trees sprouting from the earth, like flowers randomly blooming under the snow in spring, and at the weak point of the silvery glyph construction he planted one seed, one red seed of his own power, and fed it with his own life energy until it grew, until it blossomed chaotically, until the mind-binding enchantment cracked apart under the accumulated pressure.

Everything was silent, the winds had subsided, even the dried leaves were too rain-soaked to rustle underfoot. The rain had stopped, the Mage being too focused on destroying the enchantment to maintain the downpour. But he paid no mind, for the only music to his ears was the cry of the shattering glyph under his magic’s impulse, crackling like fractured crystal and clawing at his eardrums. In his utter concentration, he almost didn’t notice the sound of Clover’s footsteps rapidly approaching, stomping through the drenched leaves.

Almost. 

Qrow inhaled sharply, panic dripping through every fiber of his body as he figured he should exclude the Captain from his spell not to risk damaging his mind. But his life energy was already too drained to attain such a degree of control, to stop his mind from spreading out like a blanket over the whole space, and all he could do was weakly wave at Sir Ebi, hoping he’d understand and step aside of Qrow’s field of operation. 

But Clover stepped forward, unaffected by either the Mage’s wary gestures or his mind manipulating spell. Was Captain Ebi one of these rare non-magical men and women who could resist magic? His mind was there, _present_ , and Qrow’s magic creased under his boots at every step he took. But his mind was impenetrable, solid, calm like an anchor, but impenetrable, impregnable, and there was nothing Qrow’s telepathic ability could do to stop him. 

Why hadn’t Qrow noticed before? Perhaps because he’d been too mesmerised by the unique coloration of those affable turquoise eyes to take note of the wondrous secrets lurking under the surface. But all he could presently see in the teal irises was betrayal, and it hurt, misunderstanding that Qrow possessed the soldiers and unleashed them against the King, lying to Clover all the way, and _it hurt_ , regret for the broken beginning of trust they’d tried to forge between them. _And it hurt._

It hurt a thousandfold more than the sharp jab of the hilt of Clover’s sword, too fast for anyone to notice or stop him, against Qrow’s temple, eliciting a brief surge of pure pain and rendering the exhausted Archmagus senseless before he even hit the leaf-covered floor.

* * *

Qrow’s head still hurt when he awoke, pain pounding through his forehead, drumming against his skull. The faint buzzing of magic around his ears and the supple wet cloth dabbed against his forehead only irked him further.

“Get off me...” he slurred, his throat more parched than he expected, “I don’t need a healer.”

Against the background of uneven light filtering through the fabric of the tent he lay in, the tawny blonde woman kneeling onto his field of vision to tend to his wounds backed off precipitantly, purple eyes blinking in puzzlement. Meanwhile, he fumbled with a purse at his waist to demonstrate he could very well heal himself. 

Sitting up clumsily, he finally emptied the contents of the pouch onto the carpeted floor by his side and fidgeted through his eclectic collection of scattered charms, through all the carved bones and stone amulets from his sister’s collection on Harbinger, including that round red pebble he didn’t even know the utility of, through all his shimmering violet gravity charms and glittering gold memory charms to finally close his fingertips around the glassy green healing charm, and applying it to his bruised temple. 

“I had surmised you would find Wizard Hill’s services as a healer rather welcome,” a male voice spoke from the far end of the tent.

While channeling the meagre remnants of his still depleted magic into the healing amulet to reduce the bruising on his face, he turned to the source of the voice - and dropped his charm in shock. 

For on a wooden chair erected amidst the hunting camp’s tent sat King James Ironwood of Atlas, tall, proud, and composed as if perched on a throne. The sapphires of his golden crown echoed the poetic blue of his piercing eyes, while the diamond embellishments enhanced the deep darkness of his thick, silky raven hair. A silver chain fastened by a clasp with the emblem of his house, the pointed spear over a round shield, held an evening blue cape upon his broad shoulders, the thick velvety fabric lined with ermine fur, white as snow, and embroidered with silver patterns, bright as stars. 

Qrow had only met the monarch briefly in the past, when he was a young prince inviting the Mages of his kingdom to the inauguration of the new astronomy tower, facing the palace’s clock tower like a monster’s second head sprouting out of its stone body. James Ironwood, as a crown prince, had been eager to unveil the newest telescope, point it skyward, and find constellations himself, tracing the intricate patterns uniting celestial bodies, creating order from chaos among the sea of stars. 

When he became king, even under Queen Fria’s regency, word spread through Atlas that he continued to unite not only celestial, but earthly lands under the hegemony of the crown. When House Sleet and their vassals from the wealthy port cities in the west took advantage of the new King’s youth to rebel, his military campaigns extinguished the uprising before it could spread, and the young monarch was quick to adopt young noblemen of the western families into the innermost circles of his court. As a test of trust, and as a means of control. When the Schnees who’d supported the King’s troops with their inestimable riches from the eastern mines had shown even the slightest hints of questioning his merciful rule toward the Sleets and their bannermen, James had silenced the rumours by asking the eldest Schnee daughter’s hand, ensuring the continued loyalty of the affluent and influent Schnee family. 

Sir Ebi had informed Qrow of the details he missed, but it still took the Mage several seconds to recognise His Majesty from when he last saw him. The thick ashen beard he’d grown over the years was incredibly becoming on his kingly figure, and at the corners of his eyes, as deeply, deeply blue as ever, were faint creases from nights of worry over keeping the kingdom united, over wondering whom he could trust within his very court, including his closest advisors and his Archmagus himself. 

“Your Majesty… I know you won’t believe me, but what happened out there wasn’t my doing. Or at least, I didn’t start it...” Qrow said, unsure where to begin. 

“Good evening, Mage Branwen,” the King retorted with surprising warmth. “I would like you to repeat your statement.”

His Majesty exchanged a quick glance with his healer before Mage Branwen’s astounded eyes.

“Nope, you’re too young to have gone deaf yet,” Qrow teased back, testing the waters around the uncharacteristically welcoming monarch. 

“Correct,” Wizard Hill uttered, her hands glowing green as her magic activated. 

“Double-blessing, huh? Handy,” the Archmagus noticed, deducting that while healing magic was fairly widespread that wasn’t the only trick she had up her sleeve, and he could see why the King would like to keep a truth magic practitioner beside him. “Listen, I didn’t possess your men and order them to kill you. I didn’t stage all this.”

“Correct.”

“All I tried was to stop them and stop whoever staged this attack.”

“Correct.”

“But who orchestrated the attack?” King James wondered. 

“Mage Whitley Schnee,” a voice announced from outside the tent, before Sir Clover Ebi stomped in and dropped a white pigeon with an arrow through its eye onto the floor before his King’s eyes. 

“Correct,” the healer repeated, standing up to bow respectfully at the arrival of the Captain of the Royal Guard. 

Qrow attempted to imitate her, only to be reminded upon rising to his feet that he still had a minor concussion and would have crumpled back to the floor weren’t it for the Captain’s steady arms suddenly supporting him. Basking in the unexpected, but not unwelcome warth, Qrow sensed his light-headedness slowly ebb away, almost forgetting the lurching discomfort in his stomach at the sight of the killed bird on the carpeted ground. Almost forgetting Wizard Hill looking pointedly away, feigning utter disinterest at the embrace between the knight and the Mage. Almost forgetting the King stiffening on his wooden chair to sit even straighter than before if that were even feasible, his inquisitive eyes evidently awaiting an explanation. 

“A flock of pigeons tried to fly away after I rendered Mage Branwen unconscious,” Clover elaborated. “It was clear from their calm and their flight patterns they were still possessed, so I understood Qrow wasn’t responsible for the mind-controlling, and shot down one of the birds before it could escape.”

“Bird familiars are routinely employed by wizards as their eyes and ears,” the healer added, peering over the white carcass while Qrow shuddered softly at the sight, his mind-sharing with birds in his own magical practices only enhancing his empathy toward the limp, bloodied avian. “But this white plumage is only found around the snowy mountains of Arkanys, in the lands of House Schnee. There is no way such birds would make their way here unless Mage Schnee or Wizard Schnee puppeted them to fly towards us and spy on us.”

“The Schnees tried to frame me,” Mage Branwen exhaled in realisation. “They staged the attack so that I would be blamed for attempting to murder Your Majesty, such that Your Majesty may condemn me for my actions...”

“...and revoke your succession rights to the title of Archmagus, which would have given Mage Whitley Schnee a chance to gain the title,” the King finished, readjusting his crown even though it had hardly been tilted in the first place, or at least not to the distracted eyes of one Qrow Branwen who had been too enthralled by those very blue eyes to notice. “Rest assured that given the events that just unfolded, Mage Schnee would never be my choice for the next Archmagus even if my life depended on it.”

“Good to hear,” Qrow snorted with a yawn, or rather attempted to snort as a wave of relief laced with exhaustion washed through him, and the world swam dangerously before his eyes before his knees wobbled under his weight.

The next thing he knew, strong arms dragged him into a sitting position onto the wide wooden chair the King used to sit in, the only chair in the tent. It was uncomfortable, but at least the back was cushioned. Blinking as he stared upward through heavy eyelashes, he noticed King James and Sir Ebi standing on either side of the chair, genuine concern painted over their features. The healer had rushed to the side to hand him a flask of vivifying potion, and while the familiar decoction tasted as foul as always against his tongue, at least it replenished some of his meagre vigour. But even so, in his weakened state Qrow was uncertain at first whether he was imagining it when warm, wet tingles dripped down his shoulder - and only believed it when he looked down at his cape and noticed the fabric stained with fresh crimson. 

“You’re bleeding, Your Majesty,” Clover stated anxiously before Qrow could speak up.

Previously concealed by the King’s heavy cape, a thin, long cut spread across his shoulder, leaving Qrow to guiltily wonder whether it was a consequence of his destructive chaos magic burning down or exploding some trees when unleashed over the clearing. 

“This is nothing,” King James assured plainly. “My spear gave the pretentious stag who dared scratch me what that beast rightfully deserved.”

Just outside the tent, they could hear the regular slashes of knives the servants used to meticulously skin the great stag, hunted down by the King himself.

“I still can’t believe y… Your Majesty told Wizard Hill to care for my bruises rather than that wound. That could get infected if not treated right away.”

“On it, Mage Branwen,” the blonde grumbled, her fingers shimmering with emerald magic as she applied them onto the King’s shoulder. “Please forgive his Majesty for sometimes ignoring his own injuries.”

At her snarky words, Qrow noted that the monarch didn’t even flinch as the healer sealed the cut closed with a slow, sickening sound. Despite his own wound, the King hadn’t hesitated to make Hill tend to Qrow a priority. Hadn’t hesitated to leave his chair, the next best thing he had to a throne in the hunting campment, to the Mage when he saw the man swaying on his feet. Wouldn’t even have allowed his injury to be noticed, were it not for the bleeding, instead acting as decisively, diligently, and intelligently as a King should as if he hadn’t been hurt. 

And if that weren’t enough to make Qrow want to follow King James everywhere he led, to the end of the world if he ordered it, to support him and protect him in each of his endeavours as his Archmagus, to respect and admire him, to yearn to trust him and earn his trust, he didn’t know what would be enough. 

But despite all of the King’s affable attentions and fervent favours, the Mage couldn’t help thinking something was still wrong, that he wasn’t worthy of His Majesty’s efforts, and that King James couldn’t possibly do all that without wanting something else from him... 

“Convenient coincidence that you brought your healer and truth magic practitioner,” Qrow said. “Did you suspect something like this would happen? Or do you have other interrogations in mind.”

“I did,” the King admitted, shooting a quick look at his Captain before Sir Ebi wordlessly walked away, leaving Qrow alone with King James and Wizard Hill in the tent.

The monarch’s shoulders appeared relaxed when he next spoke, suggesting the pain had been affecting him despite the regal facade he wore before the healer dealt with his wound. But it was Qrow’s turn to tense up at the sound of the King’s question:

“Mage Branwen, did you bed my Queen before our marriage?”

* * *

“Did you bed Lady Winter Schnee before she became Queen of Atlas and my bride?” King James clarified when no answer was received. 

“I can say for certain I wasn’t the one to deflower her,” Qrow quipped back, swallowing nervously as he finally found a suitable retort. “It was years ago, so much time has passed, so many winds have flown under the Arch since… but she was quite _experienced_ at the time already, just like any respectable wizard should be. Therefore I would imagine she has put that experience to good use in order to bring you satisfaction in bed, Your Majesty.”

“Correct,” Hill declared with her darkest glare. 

“Does your magic report absolute truth, or a person’s perception of whether they’re lying or saying the truth?” the Mage groaned.

“The latter,” she said while her King rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But I also know more about Her Majesty’s _experience_ in that department than either of you.”

Qrow and James exchanged a quick, puzzled look. 

“So the rumours were true...” James muttered. “Can you Wizards ever refrain from giving in to your carnal desires? It’s not because the performance of magic drains your life energy and fertility that you should live promiscuously as if it bore no consequence.”

“What are the consequences then?” Qrow challenged. “Will you repudiate me and choose someone else as Archmagus instead? If so I may recommend Wizard Pine...”

“No… nothing of the sort… I just needed to know what truths and lies the Schnees and the rest of the court will be using against us, to be prepared for when you become my Archmagus.”

“... when?” the Mage repeated in a somewhat choked tone. 

“Only if you accept, of course,” the King amended softly. 

“... but why?” Qrow barely managed to murmur, red eyes riveted on the tip of his shoes. 

“Mage Branwen, even discounting all the tales of your legendary abilities, today you defeated nearly thirty of my men within mere seconds and broke a mind-control spell in hardly any more time. Anyone with any ounce of sense would see why I’d rather have you siding with me than with my enemies.”

“I… don’t know how to thank you, Your Majesty...”

“Not even mentioning you saved my life, for which I will be forever grateful.”

How could the King be so kind, so reverent, so clement toward Qrow? How could he display such appreciation, without selfish ulterior motives? The Mage couldn’t tell, unless he tried…

“If you took Wizard Hill on a hunting trip just to ask me that, you must be quite the jealous husband,” he murmured, licking his lips conspiratorially.

“Jealous of Queen Winter? Oh, His Majesty must be,” Wizard Hill sneered, arms crossed. 

“Because the least I could do to thank you, O Great King, is to give you a taste of what you’re missing out, compared to your young bride.”

And with a playful twirl of his long fingers, Qrow gave a sharp tug on the fur-lined rim of the monarch’s cape, pulling him down until he ended in the Mage’s lap. The King blinked, but didn’t back away, and Qrow took that as a sign of encouragement, lacing his excitement with a hint of disappointment. Of course, the attention of King James couldn’t be entirely disinterested, maybe this was what all the flattery was for? To turn Archmagus Branwen into his brand new _favourite_?

Wizard Hill walked away with a low, wordless hiss, and joined Sir Ebi by the entrance of the tent to engage in a fascinating conversation about the weather - for even the weather on that day had been rather outlandish under the whims of chaos magic. Speaking of the weather, a small breeze rose, twirling the leaves around the tent, and almost covered by the sound of rustling leaves, Clover swore he could hear the soft thud of his King’s velvet cape tumbling to the floor, followed by the unclasping of each of the silver buttons of the monarch’s ornate doublet…

Until silence suddenly echoed again, and long seconds later, a dumbfounded Qrow only gasped:

“By the gods of the Arch almighty...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehehehe… wondering what left Qrow so speechless ;)  
> Still have no idea when I’ll update next. I’ll try putting up a new chapter of All The Help We Can Get around tomorrow, but no promises… I have so many chapters of that almost finished to be honest. To those of you who don’t know All The Help We Can Get, if you like this fic and this OT3 you’ll probably like it, it’s post-canon where Clover survived but doesn’t remember anything that happened, and Zwei is just hanging around Atlas for moral support and having the time of his life. Plus by the time you catch up with the 18 or so first chapters hopefully I’ll have the next updates up ;) Stay safe and tuned xx


	4. The Arch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qrow: I can handle my coat on my own.  
> Clover: But that’s a very loooooong coaaaaat.  
> Qrow: MAGIC, B I T C H E S  
> Clover: But LoOk I aM a MeRmAiD  
> also some shit goes down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: swearing, injuries, Qrow has issues

“This is a load of bullshit,” Sir Clover Ebi overheard through the thick red velvet of the curtain. “The young warlocks of all the greatest families in Atlas probably have better to do than to _hold the back of my cape_.”

“You have to understand, Archmagus Branwen, that it is a great honour for the selected youth to accompany you during the ceremony,” the stern voice of Lady Glynda Goodwitch argued. 

“I’m not Archmagus yet,” Qrow interjected. “That’s the whole point of that dainty little ceremony of yours right there. And I don’t give a damn if all the rich families want their offspring to parade behind my back like ducklings following their mother. These are dangerous times. And having them walk after me to the Great Arch only puts them at risk.”

“But it would be extremely displeasing aesthetically to have your cape drag on the steps while you walk up to the Arch,” she countered, her boots clicking against the floor as she paced nervously. 

“I can take care of that. And if I couldn’t, then I wouldn’t be powerful enough to pretend to the title of Archmagus.”

“You are difficult to convince, Mage Branwen. I expect you will also decline His Majesty’s own Royal Guard that he sent to escort you throughout the ceremony.”

“The Royal Guard is better off guarding the King himself, isn’t that what the name is supposed to suggest?” he snapped back. “There is no threat they can dispatch that I wouldn’t be able to take care of faster. And if a bigger threat is present, they would only stand in the way of my magic when I have to intervene. Me having to navigate around them and worry about them should anyone attack me is exactly the opposite of what guards are meant to be helpful for.”

“Such arrogance led Archmagus Ozpin to his downfall,” she sneered, pausing abruptly in her pacing.

“Breachers may be impervious to magic, but from the accounts I heard there is nothing a garrison of non-magical soldiers could’ve done to stop that beast.”

“Then it’s not me you have to convince, but the Captain of the Guard who is waiting on the other side of that curtain.”

Sighing deeply, Lady Goodwitch dismissed herself from the room, shooting a dark glare at Sir Ebi as she pushed the curtain aside, stepping past him. 

“Good luck, Captain.”

“Thank you, my Lady. I will be needing that.”

Even as he stepped into the room, Qrow’s voice stopped him in his steps.

“I already know what you’re going to suggest.”

The soon-to-be Archmagus faced away from Clover, his crimson ceremonial cape unfurled before Sir Ebi’s eyes. The garment, cut from the most exquisite Capitolian velvet, was at least ten feet in length, dragging heavily on the uneven tiled floor. But from the Mage’s open palms crackled and sizzled tendrils of crimson energy, crawling their way down the cloak, catching unlikely breezes that lifted the thick fabric off the ground, undulating and shimmering perpetually without touching the tiles. Eyes narrowed in focus as he wove his spell into the cape, Qrow paid little attention to the Captain, hardly noticing teal eyes mapping the ceremonial face paint on the wizard’s features, blood-red lips rhyming with vermillion irises, pale powder gracing sharp cheekbones like moonlight.

“Does that mean you refuse?” Sir Ebi said tentatively, contemplating the stunning sight that was, more so than usual if that were even possible, the next Archmagus. 

Qrow’s ceremonial garments must have been adjusted from Ozpin’s previous wardrobe, all ornate arabesques embroidered onto rich black silks, long jet-black feathers added to the intricate clockwork clasp of the cape. From his neck hung a heavy, bejewelled chain, at the end of which sat the tilted cross of the Order of the Beacon, the main church of the Kingdom that had gifted the necklace to the Archmagus many a generation ago. The pendant had been passed down from holder to holder of that title throughout the years, and Qrow had probably used his magic to bleed away the green colour of the diamond at the cross’s centre, reminiscent of Ozpin’s emblem, and shade it in the crimson tint of House Branwen. 

“Why don’t you attempt to convince me?” the Mage mused, toying with the cross-shaped pendant. 

“If you won’t take the rest of the Royal Guard, at least please consider taking me as your escort. I can’t be affected by your magic, we figured out as much. I won’t be a liability.”

“True, your mind can’t be affected by magic, I learnt that the hard way,” Qrow said, fine ivory fingers reflexively moving to his bruised temple where the hilt of Clover’s sword had connected. “But if I call down lightning, it may still strike you, and if I summon an earthquake and a rift opens under your feet, you’ll still fall in just like any other man. Or at least that’s my hypothesis, since you were still warmed by the fire I made and drenched by the rain I called down, even though both came from my magic. You probably don’t want to find out if _that_ is true the hard way.”

“I didn’t have the chance to apologise for hurting you,” the knight ventured, uncomfortably noting the still-bruised skin under a thin veil of ashen hair against the side of Qrow’s forehead.

“You were just doing your job and protecting the King… but I have to say you pack quite a punch.”

The Mage winced at that, as Clover gently lifted the stray locks of ebony hair to examine the damaged skin underneath, angrily purplish veins almost camouflaged by handmaids’ crafty work with face paint. Qrow hummed softly as the Captain ran gentle fingers through his hair, with as much careful reverence as throughout their haphazard haircut exercise.

“If you like touching hair that much,” Qrow commented, “next time you pass by Patch you should sail to Harbinger and put your face in the fluffy spot between Zwei’s heads. He’ll rub both his faces against your cheeks and you won’t be disappointed.”

“I will, thank you for the recommendation,” Clover chuckled. “But are you sure the dog will appreciate that? Appreciate me, after what I did to him?”

“You strike me as a dog person. And I’m not saying this because of Sir Marrow.”

“Sir Marrow is one of my best men, but I know you’ll refuse if I propose that he and the rest of the Royal Guard should also escort you when you walk up to the Arch.”

“You would be right to assume so, unless anyone else among your men has the same… unusual skill that you have.”

“No, I believe I’m the only one.”

Qrow took a deep sigh, glancing out the window as sunlight painted iridescent rainbows onto his powdered cheeks when he next spoke.

“Minds like yours, unreadable by magic, are rare but not inexistent. I met a handful throughout my career as a Mage… but they’ve remained a mystery to me, as well as to the rest of magical scholars as far as I’m aware. There are many things theologians can explain about the universe as we know it, but your soul is not one of them.”

“My sisters all have the same gift as I do. There were rumours around my family’s keep that our mother was a mermaid our father rescued on a stormy night outside of the coast of Argus, and that she took human form and married him. That would make me and my siblings half-mer, but no one knows if the rumours are true.”

“Fascinating… so having mer blood would grant you such abilities.” 

Closing his eyes, Qrow seemed to outward with his magic, the turbulent energy swirling around Clover without touching him, without permeating him, as though the knight were surrounded by flames but could feel no heat, and his soul remained cold. But then Qrow’s fingers rummaged against the side of his bicep, and while the sizzling magical touch couldn’t affect him, Clover did feel the warmth in those deft digits trailing up and down his skin.

“Don’t get me wrong… you’re not like the Faunus, because those have no soul and are outright invisible to the magic eye. No, I can feel the envelope of your soul, it’s tangible, but the mind at its core is a black box, and I cannot touch it or read it.”

“It sounds like you’re trying to tell me I’m different, and I’m not a monster,” the knight stared down bashfully. “But the Faunus are no monsters. Sir Marrow is no monster, and I feel no shame in sharing similarities with him.”

“I apologise… I didn’t mean anything derogatory towards Sir Amin or the rest of the Faunus… the attitude of the court toward the Faunus seems to have largely changed since I left three years ago, and it takes some getting used to.”

“Of course. Don’t hesitate to ask if you feel disoriented with the new workings of the Atlesian court. This is what I’m here for. I trust you’ll be able to get accustomed quickly enough, after all you have plenty of time to get accustomed… not that much time until your ceremony though.”

“I’m grateful for your help. And I want to trust you back.”

Relief saturated Sir Ebi’s senses as he leaned imperceptibly into Qrow’s touch. And that certainty Clover had carried like a burden for his whole adult life, that he’d have eyes and feelings for His Majesty only, was shaken in that instant, at the sight of vulnerable crimson eyes lighting up at his offer for help, of hopeful crimson eyes promising the Mage would do better. That he’d do better for Clover, with Clover aiding and guiding him, no less.

“... Does that mean I’ll have the honour of escorting you out there?”

“I wish I could trust you with even more than that. As a sign of my gratitude, I wish I could give you something in return. I wish I could show you...”

Trailing off, Qrow attempts to focus his power once more, only to drop his spell seconds later and rest his wandering hand atop the Captain’s shoulder.

“I guess your resistance to magic has its downsides. I wish I could link our minds telepathically, to show you...”

On the other side of the curtain, a page called out for Mage Branwen, announcing that it would soon be time for the ceremony to begin. The distraction shaking Qrow’s control on his magic for a fraction of a second, a stray spark of crimson drifted from his palm, and a new breeze shook the curtains, letting a different ray of sunlight flood the room. 

Clover knew the Mage must have been through so much, having had to shoulder the blame for every other misfortune due to his powers flaring out of control, must still be going through so much just to keep his swirling chaos magic in check, and the knight too wished Qrow could tell him. Wished Qrow could relieve his burden by sharing it, for his life as Archmagus was bound to be lonely at the top. But that burden of Mage Branwen’s was too much for words to express, such that Qrow couldn’t tell him, just show him.

And since he couldn’t join their minds together, instead the Mage leaned in and closed the space between their lips. After a second of frozen shock, Clover let his eyelids slide shut, the onslaught of savage lips causing the world around them to cease existing, the onslaught of burning lips conveying everything that Qrow couldn’t convey with words. The shame, the brokenness, the disbelief, the regret, the uncertainty... and it couldn’t hurt as much on the receiving side of such raw emotions as it must hurt at the other end...

“Qrow, please... ” the knight uttered, breaking the kiss to push the other man off as gently as possible, “you don’t have to hurt yourself like that.”

“I… I’d assumed you weren’t married or betrothed, as a member of the Royal Guard… and that you’d wanted that, just like...”

“Just like everyone? This isn’t what everyone wants from you, Qrow. I don’t want just that, and I can tell you for sure that His Majesty doesn’t want that either, despite your misplaced advances.”

“Then why didn’t the King stop me when I was making _misplaced_ advances? Think you can tell what was going on just from what you overheard? Then why didn’t you stop me when I was making advances on King James, or on you? Since you’re so desperately trying to convince me, to convince yourself that you don’t want that...”

“Speaking only for myself, I do want _that_ too, but not only that. But the King, and more of the court than you think, including myself, respect you, admire you, and trust you for your many qualities, for the masterful use of your power you’ve developed over the years, for your kind heart that didn’t hesitate to save mind-controlled soldiers when it’d have been easier to kill them, that didn’t hesitate to speak up for Faunus rights even though that was way ahead of your time. We’re not showing favours to you just as an ulterior motive to get to your body. If only you could quit those promiscuous manners of your kind, stop giving away your body like you think it’s expected of you, and see that...”

“The promiscuous manners of my _kind_? You want me to stop whoring myself, because that’s what wizards are to everyone, nothing but exotic whores? How dare you judge me, when you know nothing of me?”

The Mage’s irises glowed a dangerous shade of irate red, the crimson paint on his mouth smeared, his lower lip quivering with anger. And Clover wanted nothing more than apologise to this broken man he’d dared hurt, to take back what he said and hold him close, but he couldn’t know for sure if holding him would only make him shatter further between his arms. And Clover all needed was to know for sure.

“Then tell me,” the Captain challenged, a tremor travelling through his voice, his chest, his entire body. “Or don’t. Just don’t do anything that would hurt you because you think it’ll please me. That’s no way to thank me for my courtesy toward you.”

“... I will. I will tell you. But not now. When I’m ready… whenever that happens, I don’t know. But I will tell you. I promise.”

The second kiss was nowhere as violent. On the contrary, it was a soft brush of lips, a slow attempt as they breathed in the same air, kind and hesitant like a promise. An oath to forgive and to trust, to trust with everything, with the fate of Atlas and more, to try to communicate if the time is right, to try not to judge if the time was never right. And Clover found himself responding in kind, kissing Qrow’s trembling lips again and again with infinite gentleness, to try and provide an anchor amidst the storm, to promise he’d be there no matter what, no matter when.

“Your makeup is smudged,” the Captain commented when they inevitably parted for air.

“Then let’s mess it up for good,” Qrow sighed, leaning in for another quick peck to Clover’s lips, before the guard’s hand cupped his face to wipe the red at the corner of the Mage’s lips.

“Right, now you’re good to go,” Clover smiled.

“You’re right, we should get going.”

Filtering through the windswept curtains, golden sunlight flowed like water around the room’s painted walls.

“Good luck out there.”

“You too.”

* * *

The Grand Stairway to the Arch held up to every letter of its name. Hundreds of perfectly aligned white marble steps glistened under the sun, under the stark white light from the Arch itself. On either side of the steps, Atlesian noblemen abounded in their finest attires to celebrate the naming of the new Archmagus. Fine laces and ivory fans fluttered in the wind, heavy velvets and thick linens rustled among the crowd, jewels and pearls glistened and tinkled in a lavish display of wealth. 

Below the stairs, on the wide plaza, the common people were amassed, garbed in garish bright colours to make up for their lack of expensive fabrics, but cheering as loudly and heartily as the rest, dancing gleefully as the bards strummed the lute and the shoulder harp, recounting the semi-legendary exploits of Archmagus Qrow Branwen. For they all knew the dark rumours around the Branwen twins, how his probability magic may have caused her first and only child to be born female, and how she ran away from her matrimonial duties, causing the illustrious name of their ancient noble line to end with Qrow and Raven. But the common people didn’t care much for politics, for names of rich aristocrats like painted figurines on a carousel, as long as there was an Archmagus in place, one who could manage the wizards unions throughout the Kingdom, and preferably one who could alter the weathers to keep the crops healthy and plentiful.

From the ornate loggia of the palace, King James and Queen Winter of Atlas watched silently, dressed in matching blues and silvers that highlighted the different sapphire shades of their regal eyes. The King had pronounced his formal blessing to the new Archmagus who’d kissed his gloved hand as he walked up the stairs, his immense red cape floating magically just off the steps behind him. The King’s herald, the young Flynt Coal, had sounded the trumpet and made his announcement, loud and clear. 

Mage Qrow Branwen, son of Jackdaw Branwen, grandson of Llyr Branwen, Master of Chaos, was to become Archmagus, forty-second of the title, to the Crown and Kingdom of Atlas, at the service of King James Arcturus Ironwood of Atlas, third of his name, the Wolfslayer, Unifier of the Kingdom.

And as Qrow ascended the steps, Sir Clover Ebi, Captain of the Royal Guard, followed silently, smiling and waving at the agitated crowd. Soon, they climbed the last few steps, and the Archmagus stood right below the great Arch. 

No one knew how the Arch was built. Many Atlesian castles were a masterpiece of architectural genius, but the Arch was an architectural impossibility. For its graceful, perfectly parabolic form, dwarfing the Royal Palace itself, seemed carved out of a single block of marble, as pale as ivory in the sunlight. And for both its feet were rooted deep into the clouds, concealed from the human eye, while its body arched downward through the skies like a bridge built upside down. At the midsection and lowest point of the Arch was an orb of light, reminiscent of a diamond in the rough but inestimably larger, such that many described the construction of the Arch as the work of the Gods, using the orb as an eye to observe humanity. 

Some theologians said the King of Atlas was the messenger of the Gods on the earth, and that the link between the King and the Gods was through the Archmagus. Each Archmagus was tasked to name his successor, and each new Archmagus was to receive the blessing of the orb on the Arch before starting his functions. Standing directly below the Arch, Mage Branwen discarded his immense coat with a single flourish of his hand, before rooting his feet into the highest step of the Grand Stairway, spreading his arms wide, and closing his eyes. Like a bird taking flight, his mind soared high above, until it met the light of the Orb, and he saw everything. 

The Gods had created humans of all kinds, some without magical abilities, some with all kinds of various magical abilities. And Qrow saw them all. But the Gods had joined them in a common design, weaving threads that connected every human as if they were caught in a fine, almost imperceptible spiderweb. And Qrow saw them all. 

Those humans that sat at vertices of the web were that minority that were gods-touched, with magical power bestowed upon them by the Gods themselves. While most powers were similar, sitting alongside symmetric vertices, including elemental wizards, healers, and fortune-tellers, some were unique, like the Schnee’s summoning, Raven’s blood magic, Qrow’s chaos magic. Each wizard could access the abilities from their own vertex, as well as those of nearby locations, including those of family members, but only with the help of dedicated charms and amulets and with experience and training. And Qrow saw them all. 

He could feel the earth turn within his open palm, and he could feel every heartbeat that sent a vibration through the whole spiderweb. He could sense the thrumming of every living soul, every living being save for the soulless, the Faunus and the Breachers, who remained invisible from the sight of the orb and of magic users, including the Archmagus. 

He could feel it, when a deep disturbance set the whole web trembling. As one power, one soul… disappeared. A power that smelled strangely familiar, yet more youthful than the last time Qrow had sensed it. A power scented like oiled cogs, old parchment, and faded ink - scented like time magic, and after the passing of Archmagus Ozpin there could only be one practitioner of that ability in all of Atlas…

His own mind engaged in the orb and in the investigation for the lost soul, Qrow failed to notice wood singing through the air in his direction. Failed to notice the arrow flying toward his chest, to notice Sir Ebi’s strong arms pushing him aside, standing in the way of the projectile. The Archmagus disengaged his soul from the Arch, landing back in his own body and frantically gasping for air, attempting to project his magic to deflect the arrow… But it was too late, and the point embedded itself into the Captain’s strong shoulder, drawing a rivulet of blood. 

Cursing the too many chains and belts of his ceremonial costume, Qrow reached for his pouch of amulets, searching for his healing charm. 

“I wish I could undo those belts myself,” Clover quipped from the floor, coughing softly. “Guess that serves me right for hitting you with the hilt of my sword.”

“Save your breath, and you’ll live. Your heart and lungs should be intact,” Qrow retorted, rolling his eyes as he fumbled through the too many charms he owned.

But bursting through the crowd as if she’d jumped down some balcony or other, Wizard Hill was already at Clover’s side. Applying her hands to the wound, she caused the flesh to merge back together, pushing the wooden projectile out until its bloodied form clattered onto the white marble floor.

“Thank you, Robyn,” Sir Ebi whispered with a small smile.

“Find who did this,” she hissed toward Qrow while she held onto the Captain’s wound, her hands glowing green. 

And Qrow projected his mind outward once more. Not into the Arch, this time, for if he hadn’t perceived the shooter the first time, they may have been a Faunus. But linking his soul with that of a wayward bird part of a flock overhead, he borrowed the animal’s piercing eyes, watching the crowd from above. And mind-leaping from a bird to another while retracing the trajectory of the arrow, he found a silhouette clad in black among the crowded balconies, brandishing a loaded crossbow. As he expected, a Faunus, whose mind he couldn’t perceive, much less possess.

Squirming with unease at the thought of having to possess a human body, he linked his mind onto that of a nearby servant boy and lunged at the shooter’s back. The criminal fell to the ground, releasing his crossbow bolt haphazardly through the crowd. Busy calling upon a gust of ascending wind to carry the projectile skyward so it didn’t hurt anyone, Qrow within the boy’s body dodged a beat too late when the crossbow wielder drew a knife to slash at him. 

The boy, and Qrow possessing him, closed their eyes, and time slowed to a slop. Until the deafening clang of metal against metal echoed, as if someone had started all the clocks in the world again. 

Sword outstretched to block the knife blade, standing proud within the crowd in her lace-frilled white dress and matching collerette from which dangled rhinestones as red as blood, was Lady Wizard Weiss Schnee, glaring down at the servant boy like he was nothing. 

“Get out of the way, my Lady, it’s dangerous to be here in your corporeal form,” the kid groaned with Qrow’s voice.

“I just saved your life and that boy’s!” she shrieked in response.

“Then mind your head, and tell everyone to get out!”

And grabbing the young lady in his arms despite her protests, he raised a hand toward a tall statue overhead, calculating the probabilities just so that it could fall onto the balcony and pin the shooter’s legs without hurting anyone around them. Screaming and howling, the crowds scurried away like ants, pushed by Weiss who waved her bejewelled blade as a conduit for her magic, which Qrow must admit was quite smart, to puppet the audience away with suggestive telepathy. 

“This balcony is going to collapse, isn’t it?” she spoke shakily, wiping her tired brow with her frilly sleeve while contemplating the cracks the statue’s fall had created atop the balcony. 

“That’s why I told you it was dangerous to be here, and to get everyone out of the way,” Qrow retorted, holding in the spreading fissures with his own power. 

But as they talked, the criminal shuffled from beneath the sculpture, shooting another bolt toward the stop of the stairs. 

“Robyn!” Qrow exhaled, still in tune enough with the orb and the rest of the web to immediately sense the arrow meeting her chest.

The statue rolled off the black-clad man’s legs as he moved - and heavily hit the floor, causing the balcony to detach and plummet. 

Qrow exited the servant boy’s mind and puppeted someone else to reach over and catch him. But by the time he saved the kid, Lady Weiss was already falling with the balcony, and no change of probabilities could break the certainty of gravity that dragged her and the shooter down, down…

Extending his magic further, Qrow linked his mind to Weiss’s, and used an old trick he’d picked up from Raven to teleport a small red crystal from his own charm pouch to atop the young woman’s pallid palm. 

“Think of a person that’s dear to you,” he murmured straight into her consciousness, “and this trinket will take you there and away from this balcony.”

“What kind of sorcery is this? A blood magic charm? What kind of charlatan would use such a dangerous trinket to - ”

The Archmagus gave a small telepathic push, and her hand closed upon the charm, whisking her away into thin air toward the loggia where her queenly sister stood. 

And Qrow promptly returned to his own body, by Clover and Robyn on the marble staircase. 

“Qrow,” the Captain called out, his outfit still bloodstained as he held the healer in his arms. “Robyn's not breathing.”

* * *

Upon the royal loggia, Queen Winter was pale as a sheet, her sister’s armstightly wrapped around her as she stared in horror, as petrified as a statue. Looking away, the King examined the fiasco that had unfolded before his eyes, dreading the bird of ill omen that flew in his direction, soot-black wings flapping ominously as it delivered a message from the monarch’s own Archmagus.

According to the missive, Robyn Hill was hit by a poisoned arrow but alive, and Wizard Oscar Pine had disappeared. So it was all a diversion to get to the boy, the King deduced. There was only one person he knew who would risk such a scheme, attack the Archmagus himself as a distraction to kidnap a time wizard. His fist crumpling the note into oblivion, King James cursed under his breath, uttering a single word, a single name.

“Cinder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woops, it’s all going to shit. :D  
> This is the kinda point where I’m wondering if I should bump up the rating, so if you have an opinion lemme know in the comments. There won’t be any explicit scenes though, if I write any in this universe they’ll be in separate side-fics but I don’t exactly have the energy for that now. Also, Qrow’s issues and past will be touched on in later chapters, but not in graphic detail.  
> Don’t worry, the next chapter is gonna be a lot calmer than this one and Qrow will get the hugs he deserves. Until then, stay safe and posted xx


	5. Secrets of the Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You people (over on Discord) seem to enjoy the summaries, so there ya go:  
> In which Qrow gets the hugs he really deserves, is pissed at Ozpin, investigates some stuff, gets a nap, gets a jump scare, and is *flustered* watching Clover run around… not necessarily in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of alcoholism, mentions of racism, a certain reference that’s so unsubtle that it needs it own warning

Archmagus Branwen’s personal belongings would have been few, weren’t it for all the offerings the noble families sent to his new personal quarters, previously Ozpin’s. Lady Camilla had sent a collection of finely illuminated grimoires, Lord Schnee had gifted a chain of teardrop-shaped rubies from the mines of Arkanys and golden pet birds in cages, Lord Sleet had ordered a whole set of silverware marked with the feathery coat of arms of House Branwen, even Lord Xiao Long had mailed a chair whose armrests were carved into fire-breathing rock dragons, and the Belladonnas had offered rare Northern flowers within vases of richly painted, almost translucent porcelain.

Those were cumbersome effects for the pages to carry in, under the watchful eye of the Archmagus who insisted to help while fighting a growing headache. His determination to participate in moving in his own effects was rendered useless however when the King approached and made sure that the wary wizard got some rest. 

“Archmagus Branwen, I came to make sure you were settling in suitably well, and to remind you of the tourney held tomorrow morning in the honour of your naming as Archmagus, not to see you further exhausting yourself carrying that ebony cupboard from House Amitola.”

“That’s mahogany,” Sir Ederne protested as she picked the piece of furniture off the ground, easily even without Qrow’s help.

“But Your Majesty, I -” Qrow started.

“James. Please call me James. Now you’re my Archmagus, you’re my vassal but first and foremost my friend.”

Qrow understood the monarch would need a friend, with everyone around him acting so formal and distant, and even his bride preferring her favourite over her husband. However, he wouldn’t pass up the chance for a nickname...

“If I may, James is hardly a unique name, carried by your father and his grandfather before him....Jimmy?” Qrow ventured.

“Pardon?” the King blinked in confusion.

“Friends give each other nicknames. Either Jimmy, or Your Maj.”

“Fine then,” James ran a hand through his thick raven hair in defeat.

“And I insist you call me Qrow.”

“Fine then, Qrow. I hope you’re settling down well.”

“As well as is possible, considering how your wife’s mistress has her life on the line and I couldn’t save her.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have gotten distracted and let that assassin shoot her after he was down...”

“It’s not your fault, even that assassin was just a distraction. Soon we’ll have enough evidence to determine that Cinder’s the real culprit.”

“Who?” 

“Lady Wizard Cinder Fall.”

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Qrow couldn’t place it any more than a forgotten footnote in the cluttered margins of an aged history book.

“Your Majesty? Is everything all right? I heard her name...” Sir Clover called out, running down the corridor with concern written all over his expression.

He paused next to James and Qrow, slightly out of breath with his hair mussed up and with a faint sheen of sweat covering his skin that caught the evening sunlight and enhanced the chiselled curves of his impressive musculature. Both the King and Archmagus were distracted for a second, while the servants and knights continued to work around them.

“Yes, Clover… I’m all right. I just think Cinder is behind all of this.”

“I have news from the hospital wing,” the knight panted, a glint of discomfort in his glare. “Lady Hill is still poisoned and unconscious, and her condition is critical, but the best healers in Atlas are at her bedside. The shooter succumbed from his injuries however.”

“I couldn’t save him when the balcony fell,” Qrow said, looking down at the tiled floor. 

“You can’t always save everyone,” the King spoke gravely, setting a hand upon his Mage’s shoulder.

“The physician said he was from the Yuma clan judging from his tattoos… some mercenary, no doubt.”

“He was only following orders,” the Archmagus sighed. 

“He was willing to be paid to kill you!” Clover yelled. “By the Schnees, or whomever wants you dead...”

“He was a distraction,” the monarch cut in. “Cinder must have hired him to attack Qrow while she...”

“Nope.” 

Both James and Clover turned to the crimson-eyed wizard, who popped the ‘p’ for emphasis to make sure he gained their attention. 

“Nope, I don’t think so. I don’t think I was the target. The first bolt shot at me that you took wasn’t poisoned, but the one that hit Robyn was.”

“The first bolt was only to lure Robyn out...” Clover realised, wide-eyed. 

“The target was Wizard Hill all along,” Qrow continued. “Which suggests Cap here is right, the Schnees must be behind this. They figured out through their first attempt that they wouldn’t be able to frame me as long as we have a truth wizard on our side… so they got rid of her in the fastest and easiest way they could think of. Making it look like an attack targeting me, one of the most hated wizards in the Kingdom.”

“Your deduction skills are impressive, Archmagus Branwen...” Sir Ebi judged.

“Please call me Qrow, and join me in calling him Jimmy, that’ll drive him mad...” the Mage suggested with a wink. 

“Only if you please accept this compliment,” Clover retorted immediately. 

“What about Lady Weiss?” the King wondered aloud. “Was she there to pretend that her family is siding with us in this affair? Or did she catch wind of her father’s plans and attempt to foil them?”

“Either of these are possible. She had no way to figure out the Faunus’s location with magic as fast as she did after his first shot. So she must’ve known before, whether she was ordered by her father or whether she disobeyed him to try and clear her family name.”

Qrow buried his hands into the pockets of his brand new outfit as he spoke, pacing nervously around the scurrying guards and servants who kept piling presents into his personal rooms.

“It doesn’t rule out the fact that Cinder took advantage of the attack to kidnap Wizard Pine,” James insisted. “The Schnees would never have needed to take him by force, if they needed him they could just take him as a ward and pay his allowances to the Church of the Beacon, of which he was a member until now.”

“I see no flaw in your reasoning concerning the Schnees...” the Archmagus grumbled.

“But with all due respect, Your Majesty, this still doesn’t incriminate Cinder,” the Captain finished, pinpointing exactly the issue Qrow was confused about. “I know our history with her has been… long, Your Majesty, but we cannot keep pinning the blame for all unresolved issues on her back without evidence, lest the court believe their King has lost his mind obsessing over a woman presumed dead and ignoring other threats to the Kingdom.”

“What kind of other threats?” the King slammed his fist against the wall, the hanged portraits shivering in their frames. “The Breachers don’t have the intelligence to orchestrate such a rapt, and all the noble Houses I’ve coddled one way or another, to keep them under control one way or another, even the Belladonnas up north. I don’t see why they would do such a thing as kidnap Oscar Pine. No, the only one I failed to unite under our cause is _her_ , it has always been her.”

“If this is the case, Your Majesty, I believe I would be of most use collecting evidence on the case… Good work team,” Clover waved at his men busy rearranging Qrow’s furniture, before dashing off in their direction to courteously lend a helping hand.

“If there is anything you need to tell me about Cinder, or about anything… please let me know, Jimmy,” the Archmagus told the King when the two men found themselves alone. 

“First, I wanted to tell you… I wanted to make it clear that if I allowed you to pursue your advances, back in that tent, it was only to see how you would react to...”

The King gestured awkwardly to the right side of his body, but the Archmagus caught the King’s hand, unflinching as James returned his tug with a grip of his own fingers, an iron grip under velvet gloves. 

“I know,” Qrow said.

“Because I surmised you would figure it out sooner or later, and I do truly want to trust you...”

“I know. And James… you’re not a monster.”

“...You called me James,” the King spoke after a pause, blinking rather adorably which only made Qrow yearn to tease him again.

“Yes, Your Majesty James Arcturus Ironwood.”

The Mage’s heartbeat fluttered at the mere sight of that infinitesimal rictus, that promise of a half-smile gracing the corner of the monarch’s lips.

“Qrow… thank you.”

And before he knew it, Qrow found himself wrapped in a tight hug, with no way to escape the safe haven of the King’s almost overbearing warmth… not that he’d ever want to. Sighing softly, he leant closer into Jimmy’s embrace, wrapping his arms around the taller man’s sculptural shoulders as the King’s beard tickled the side of his neck.

“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that,” James whispered into the ear of his Archmagus.

“Anytime, Jimmy.”

The King’s deep blue eyes seemed almost regretful as he disengaged from the embrace, both men hesitant at the sudden loss of warmth.

“I should leave you to get settled in and rested. I trust the bed will be comfortable enough.”

* * *

Just as the King hoped, the bed was indeed the most comfortable Qrow had ever napped in during his life. A perk of his new title, he imagined, stretching lazily among the linen blankets on the soft sheets. Pushing aside the heavy, dusty fabrics boarding the four-poster bed, the Archmagus yawned as he sat up, wondering how much time he still had until supper. His evening nap had been reinvigorating after the events of the day, but waking in a bed that used to be the late Archmagus Ozpin’s a few days ago came with its sensation of discomfort, and he ran a tired hand through his hair before standing up.

Ozpin knew. 

Ozpin must’ve known what would happen. Or so Qrow’s mind was nagging him. Ozpin must’ve known something would happen to Oscar, and therefore named Qrow as his successor instead of the Pine boy. Or else… Why would Ozpin have chosen Qrow? For someone who always prided himself in seeing several moves ahead with his time magic, someone so obsessed with his own legacy, surely Ozpin must have left some clues behind, some clues that would help his successor decipher the secrets surrounding Oscar’s disappearance, surrounding Ozpin’s death…

Ozpin would have left something.

Like many Mages having earned the respect of one another, Qrow and Ozpin had entertained a sparse, but regular correspondence in recent years. But it had been devoid of clues. Instead, it had been a game of correspondence chess. 

A game cut short, a game that would never end. 

Atop the tall wardrobe in the bedroom sat the chess set that must have been Ozpin’s. Reaching for the wooden board, Qrow half-expected the pieces to be ordered in some kind of meaningful way, but they were set up as if at the start of a new game. A blank slate, no message to be unveiled, no new clues to help him out of the dark. Qrow gave a quick look under the board, but finding nothing hidden there, he set the object onto the desk, exhaling in defeat. 

Next, he rummaged through the cabinets, but only found blank parchments, a few quills, an assortments of cogs and wheels of various shapes and sizes, and empty compartments that likely previously housed charms and talismans, that must have been donated to the Church of the Beacon after Ozpin’s passing. It was oddly relieving, the Mage considered while sitting down in his brand new chair, not to be left with all the belongings and working tools of a recently deceased wizard. However, that still left him with no clue. 

He soothed his frustration by arranging some of his own charms into the cabinet. The common elemental ones got their own row, followed by the blood magic charms he got from Raven’s collection on Harbinger, now missing the small red portal crystal he’d given to Weiss. Most of the charms Qrow had figured out what they could do, save for that mysterious brown red pebble that may as well have been a riverbed rock and not a charm at all, but that he lined up in the drawer anyway, in case he may find out its usage later. It had been obvious from Raven’s disappearance she must have sensed it coming, and left as much of her magic woven into the objects so that her brother and others could use them. 

But Ozpin? It seemed he didn’t leave anything. 

Raising his arm to run his hand through his hair in discouragement, Qrow knocked over the chessboard. And just his luck, the carved stone pieces went scattering all over the floor. 

Or rather, they tended to gather into an almost imperceptible dimple in the carpet… or maybe was that just pure chance? To be sure, he closed his fist and created the slightest of earthquakes, almost indetectable, to shake the chess pieces until they all ended up in that same location. So what? It just meant the wooden floor was slightly uneven, and the lowest point in the room sat there. At least, on the bright side of things, that made it ever so slightly easier to pick up all the amassed pieces. 

Shrugging, he stood up and stepped toward the fallen chess pieces, his footsteps echoing on the carpeted wooden floor. 

_Thump. Thump. Thump. BAM._

Two steps backward, one step forward. 

_Thump. thump. BAM._

There was no doubt - the floor was hollow at that spot. No one may have noticed since there was nothing interesting at that random corner of the room other than a slight irregularity in the ground… but under the carpet, the floor was hollow at that spot.

After scooping up the chess pieces and arranging them back on the board, he lifted the carpet’s corner and dug out the wooden plank below which he believed the floor to be hollow. 

And it was hollow. 

But there was nothing concealed there. 

Sighing in defeat, Qrow sat cross-legged on the floor of his new quarters, holding a large wooden plank between his hands, a wooden plank he’d definitely need to put back before readjusting the carpet and hiding away the chess set somewhere it wouldn’t be easily knocked over again. 

A wooden plank that he twirled pointlessly between his hands - only to notice the fine italic inscription at the back. Scratching clouds of dust off the wood to better decipher the message, it took him seconds of coughing and wiping his teary eyes before he could read the anonymous text:

_Secrets concealed for many a year, so long_

_Since, from the clock fell many a tick, tick, tick,_

_Since many an angel fell in the East,_

_Fell, weeping where ravens cannot feast,_

_Yet secrets shall survive at the tip_

_of your tongue._

It sounded like Ozpin must have tried at the beginning of the verse, before giving up on any attempt at poetry by the end. Either that, or he must have gotten tired throughout the strenuous process of wood carving. Still, the end rhymed with the beginning, like a snake biting its tail, so the riddle must be complete, and all the contents Qrow needed to start his treasure hunt following Ozpin’s clues must be somewhere in that mysterious, botched poem. 

As a time mage, Ozpin’s mention of clocks was hardly surprising. Even though all of his clocks had mercifully been removed from the rooms that were now Qrow’s, spare clockwork parts remained in the drawers around the desk. But what surprised the new Archmagus more was what fell from the clock, ‘fell’ repeated three times, eerily echoing the poetic cheat that was the ‘tick, tick, tick’. Yet, the only substantial hint that designated the next stop in the treasure hunt was the East. Qrow’s knowledge of the palace was limited, but he was certain the astronomy tower was in the east wing of the palace, while the clock tower rose… in the west?

Practically running as fast as his legs could carry him, Qrow raced to the base of the old clock tower, and proceeded to fall down three floors. Or rather, proceeded to take the ancient flight of stone steps down three floors into the Palace caves, since that was a just as fast and less hazardous way of falling. 

_Since, many an angel fell in the East_

It took him long seconds to get accustomed to the darkness and retrieve his sense of directions underground after running down the spiral staircase, but he finally remembered the compass he usually carried around with him and put it to good use, heading toward the east. 

_Fell, weeping where ravens cannot feast_

In the east were the palace crypts, keeping the bodies of ancient kings and queens away from the beaks and talons of carrion-eater birds. Each tombstone was slightly different from the next, each king holding his own version of a broadsword over his armoured bust where no heartbeat resided, each queen’s hair fashioned in her epoch’s own way above her eyelids that would remain closed forever. Some more or less fresh flowers adorned the marble coat of arms of the past monarchs, the spears of House Ironwood, the lions of House Lionheart, the wyverns of House Da Long, but the majority were bare, cold, barren. 

For the crypts were lugubrious and most likely haunted, and rarely did a live soul dare venture down into their deep dark intestines. With only a torch in hand, Qrow gathered his cape around his shoulders and advanced through the damp obscure silence only punctuated by the distant dripping of foul water and the sinister screeching of scurrying rats. Heading east, east always. 

A ghostly breeze caressed his face as he passed the empty mausoleum of Oswald, the only King-Archmagus that ever lived, surrounded by towering statues that stared sternly down at whoever was brave enough to pass by through the ethereal folds of their alabaster veils. Looking pointedly away from the silent sculptures, he repressed a shiver and walked east, always east. 

He passed more rows of ever so slightly misaligned graves like kernels on a cob, before noticing the tombs of King Ozma and Queen Salem at the end of the tunnel, crowned by a circle of four mournful cherubs, their stone wings perpetually caressing the vaulted ceiling. Something cracked beneath his foot, and he decided not to look, bearing no interest in whatever macabre bony remains or live insect vermin may have been crushed beneath his boot. 

Then, behind him echoed the deafening sound of shattered glass.

“Archmagus Branwen?”

When he swiveled around, his cape whipping through the putrid air, he was faced with an apparition as diaphanous as alabaster, as regal and ghostly as the souls of ancient queens and kings. 

“Winter!?”

“To you, it’s Your Highness,” she snorted, pushing away the shards of the crystal cup she had dropped at her feet with the disdainful tip of her pointy shoe.

“What are you doing here?” they managed to stutter approximately at the same time.

“The palace cellars are right next door, and no one dares come to bother me here,” the Queen explained proudly, holding her head high despite the half-empty bottle of one of the royal caves’ finest wines in her hand. “Except you, unfortunately.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to Robyn,” he spoke tentatively. 

“Nothing more original to say?” she retorted. “You carry yourself like you’re the newest trend in town, and yet you have nothing more to offer than what everyone has already told me.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save Robyn. I’m sorry I believed the attacker was after me, even though she was the target all along.”

“Men like you can’t see past the shadow of their own hubris. You think your reputation is everything, you think everything's about you, and the world revolves around you.”

“Such sensations may be a side-effect of becoming Archmagus,” he deadpanned as she circled him slowly, her rich satin gown dragging against the filthy floor, neither of them daring to move closer or walk away. “Your tongue is just as sharp as the last time we met.”

“At least you’re already lasting longer than time, Branwen.”

Her words hurt as much as ever, as much as most the comments whispered behind his back at court usually hurt. But there was an edge of vulnerability in her red-rimmed that couldn’t just be possessiveness over her favourite.

“But you and Wizard Hill… it’s different, isn’t it? I hadn’t realised.”

“It wasn’t so different at first. I met her around the same time I met you, when Robyn and I were completing our apprenticeships in the Capital.”

“Around when the astronomy tower was inaugurated?”

“Yes, that was when my father first introduced me to Prince James and Queen Fria… We were a handful of soon-to-be minted wizards back then, that for sure would be scattered across the kingdom by the forces of destiny. Some would move on to pursue magical careers, as travelling wizards, church or court wizards, and some would even become the Mages of their Houses, while others would give up magic for marriage and to found a family. Suffice to say, we knew we may never see each other again in the near future, so Robyn, the others, and I, cherished our last moments together like good wizards should.”

“In what our dear Jimmy calls _promiscuous ways_.”

“You could say that. I always knew my father never intended me to pursue a wizard career, and only encouraged me to develop my abilities as a way to serve our family’s power and influence until he found me a good party to marry.”

“You may say everything you want about Lord Schnee, but you must admit the party he found you wasn’t half bad.”

“The dowry my father offered and the support of our House wasn’t something Queen Fria could refuse for her son. That wasn’t surprising. What surprised me, however, was that the King has always been good to me. From the first night, he always agreed our union was purely political, and we both agreed we could seek satisfaction for other endeavours elsewhere, beyond our common duty to birth an heir for the kingdom. But all my wizard friends were either away, or terrified by my situation as Queen to dare approach me unless they had ulterior motives. All, except Robyn.”

“So you fell in love, and lived happily ever after… until now.”

“We gradually became closer… until now… want some?”

She offered him her bottle after taking a quick swig herself, and even turning away reflexively couldn’t stop the scent from wafting from his nostrils, couldn’t dispel memories from darker days resurfacing suddenly. 

“No thanks. I’d rather not depend on that again to inhibit my magic again.”

“I don’t have to worry about that any more. My powers haven’t been active since I was wed. But I’m impressed you managed not to rely on the bottle any more.”

She took another gulp and sat on the steps of the mausoleum, setting the bottle down next to her with a weak clink of glass against stone.

“Life as a hermit helped with that,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair as he crouched down next to her. “But not so much with other aspects, like _people_.”

“Your manners have always been absolutely appalling, Branwen, your years of isolation are no suitable excuse.”

“If so, then Your Grace won’t be surprised if I ask an indiscrete question.”

“Please, go ahead already.”

“If Jimmy more than tolerates that his queen entertains a favourite in Wizard Hill, why doesn’t he have any favourites of his own? Your husband is far from unattractive, not to even mention how rich and powerful everyone knows he is...”

“We’re both thinking about the same person, are we not?”

“Huh?”

“Sir Clover Ebi, Captain of the Royal Guard, stealer of our dearest King’s heart?”

The Archmagus prayed for the weak lighting to conceal the blush creeping up to his cheeks.

“Oh. Uh...”

“Because no one else has appeared able to compete for my husband’s attention against Clover so far. And because the King and Sir Ebi prefer to view each other as brothers. Clover was barely fifteen when he became a squire to Prince James, the regent queen adopted him as a third child of sorts.”

“... Third?”

“Of course, there was already a sister. A gods-touched child born out of wedlock from the King’s father, James II, to some fire witch on the outskirts of Forever Fall, but brought up within the royal family due to her unique magical abilities. Or rather, her abilities to amplify and absorb other wizards’ powers with that arm of hers.”

The mere tone with which she mentioned said arm was enough to send shivers down anyone’s spine. In addition, bastards were named after their land of birth, therefore it wasn’t hard for Qrow to connect the dots...

“Cinder Fall,” he realised suddenly. 

The name had always sounded vaguely familiar to Qrow, but being both female and born out of wedlock to a baseborn woman, she was hardly more than a curiosity mentioned in passing, alongside the many other shiny trinkets and exotic pets the royal family had to show off. Even the circumstances of her death in a gruesome fire, or rather disappearance if James’s conviction was to be believed, were muffled and hardly ever mentioned, as if cursed.

“She’s the reason why James won’t see Clover as anything more than a brother. Before His Majesty and I were married, Cinder tried to court James… it ended in tragedy. Now the King wants to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself with himself and Sir Ebi.”

“What if Clover is different though?”

“I wouldn’t be the one to convince James to try his luck… being a monarch’s favourite will only paint a target on Clover’s back, and that can only result in heartbreak.”

Setting down her now empty bottle, she held her head between her hands, loose silver strands tumbling down her pale features.

“Winter… I’m sorry I couldn’t save Robyn,” he muttered finally, inching imperceptibly closer until he could almost feel her meagre body heat against his skin. “I’d like to tell you she’s strong, stronger than we realise, and she’ll come back, she’ll come back stronger, but I’m sure everyone’s been telling you that, that you must’ve been telling yourself, because the fact is that I was there but I couldn’t save her...”

“Qrow, thank you for saving my sister!” the Queen sighed, promptly interrupting him by wrapping herself around his shoulders. 

Mentally decreting he’d been hugged enough for the day, but not abhorring it as much as he’d assumed, he remained frozen for a few seconds under the shock and the surprisingly strong embrace of her slender arms.

“I still don’t know what she was doing there, but I owe Lady Weiss my life, Your Majesty.”

“I’m glad to hear, but I don’t know either. If my father brought her and Whitley here from our house seat in Arkanys just for the time of your nomination and the tourney the King is holding in your honour, there must be a reason.”

“The Royal Guard is currently investigating, Sir Ebi will figure it out eventually...”

“If you are to investigate my father, I implore you to be careful, for ruffling him the wrong way could start a war.”

“Even with your marriage to the King?”

She hesitated for long seconds, eyes darting around the confined space as if attempting to avoid the topic. Words were hardly needed to evoke the union between the Ironwood and Schnee families stood on shakier ground every passing day that the Queen failed to birth her husband an heir; Winter and Qrow both knew. 

“Either way I’m relieved that my sister is spending some time in the Capital,” she said finally, purposefully changing the topic.

“It’s hardly the best time now.”

“It’s better than never. The way we were brought up in the mountains of Arkanys was... different. Staying here has greatly changed my own perspective on things, and I hope it’ll have the same effect on my sister.”

“Your perspective on what? The Faunus?”

“In Arkanys, the Faunus are serfs, mine workers and servants. Treating them like any other of our possessions was customary, and I found it normal, my sister found it normal, my father did. We had a Faunus boy working in the stables, caring for the horses. Sometimes he’d sneak out some of the animal food for vagabond Faunus, for escaped mine workers. One day he gave an apple destined for Weiss’s best stallion, her Armagigas, to some measly Faunus child, a poor redheaded thing riddled with the Blackdust. My sister and father were furious, the mere presence of someone with Blackdust within our fort would increase the risks of global contamination. Weiss had the child whipped, and when our servant protested, she had both of them whipped. The sick child died of the disease and the injuries mere days later, and Weiss wanted the stable boy dismissed from the service of our house, but he still had the capacity to work, so our father included him in my dowry when I married King James.”

“A servant, even a Faunus, as part of a dowry?” Qrow commented, suppressing a shudder of disgust. “Even a few years back, that couldn’t have been right.”

“And yet, I believed it was the right thing to do. My sister did, my brother did, we all did. Weeks later, our mother succumbed to the Blackdust.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it.”

Qrow had heard little of Lady Willow Schnee after she abandoned her wizard career - rumours painted her as sickly and bedridden, such that it unfortunately came as no surprise that the epidemics of Blackdust that wiped across the kingdom through recently harsh winters had triumphed over her ill health.

“But looking back,” her daughter continued, “I wished there’d been another way. The Faunus didn’t need to be punished, punishing him didn’t save my mother. I see it now, and I hope my sister will be able to see it.”

“You think she could find him here? Gain his forgiveness? Do you even know if the boy is even still here in the Capital? Even still alive?”

He could tell in the way her eyes softened that she hadn’t dared consider that, hadn’t dared hope that yet.

“The Faunus? I wouldn’t know… I don’t even know if I ever knew his name.”

They had come far in recent years, but great strides were still to be made when it came to tolerance, in understanding of how the soulless could act and look so similar despite being so fundamentally different, so fundamentally _lacking_.

“But pray tell, Branwen, what are you doing around these parts of the castle, since I expect you didn’t come to listen to the rambles of a lonely queen.”

He wrapped an awkward arm around her shoulders, hoping to relieve her of the burden she carried, the silent burden that had accumulated throughout the years.

“I aim to please, Your Grace… but I was following a riddle our late Ozpin left.”

“Maybe he did finally open up about some of his secrets after his passing, finally. What is the riddle about?”

Too lazy to recite it by heart, he pressed a finger to her temple, creating a mind link through which he poured the memory of the words engraved on wood…

“Many an angel fell in the East… fell, weeping?” she echoed, suddenly alert and glancing upward. “There’s a leak in the ceiling, sometimes on rainy days water drips down the cherubs, and it looks as though they’re crying.”

Tapping on an amethyst on her stone-studded necklace, she murmured an incantation, and the circle of stone angels slowly lowered from the ceiling, until the winged statues that decorated the mausoleum were eye to eye with Qrow and Winter.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to… never mind,” the Archmagus uttered, caressing the trace of tears down the marble of one of the statue’s puffy cheek - a trace scarred onto the stone by time and weathers that no hand would ever be able to wipe away. 

He reached out with his magic, attempting to identify moving parts within the sculpted structure that could unfortunately break or spring open, revealing the secrets inside. Inhaling sharply as crimson sparks of his power seeped through the imperceptible cracks in the stone, he pressed upon the angel’s closed eyelid with a single digit - and animated by the cogs and wheels of automata Ozpin was so fond of, the eye opened, as if silently winking at them. 

Winking, to unveil the stone that was its left eye. 

A red-tinted, brow pebble, that may as well have been a riverbed rock and not the key to Ozpin’s secret at all.

A round, flat, simple pebble that promptly fell into the palm of his open hand.

Sighing as if he’d come full circle, as if he’d never learnt a thing since leaving Harbinger, and was as clueless as the first time as he saw his sister’s mysterious charm, he felt Winter’s shoulder pressed against his as she raised a skeptical brow.

“What are you supposed to do with it? What did the end of the riddle say?”

_Yet secrets shall survive at the tip_

_of your tongue._

Since he’d already tried everything, he may as well try this now. Opening his mouth, he deposited the stone between his tongue and his palate, and waited. 

Suddenly, the room changed, stretched, grew, and everything was different. The air was thick, the light was far, too far away, too far above, yet so close. Each of the stone cherubs was larger than life, and the Queen was a giant statue of alabaster higher than the clock tower of the Palace. 

He attempted to open his mouth to make a snarky remark, but all that came out was a caw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you try to be sassy, but all you have is a beak ;)  
> Sorry this was supposed to be the calm cuddly chapter but it ended up being 5K+ words. I hate it when this happens, but hey at least Qrow got hugs out of it.  
> Guess what’s next… tournament arc! Is there a tournament because I had no idea where to go next from here? Totally. Did I get the idea from [Princess Weiss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23813284/chapters/57215659)? Totally, you should go read it, it’s awesome.  
> Til the tournament starts, stay safe and posted xx


	6. Tourney

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, who are we kidding, Clover’s the official guard of 3. the proper functioning of everything at court, 2. Qrow’s life, 1. James’s life, but mostly 0. Qrow’s hair and making sure it stays soft and pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t updated in ages, so here’s a super long chapter. I kinda love this chapter, but I kinda hate it, hope you enjoy xD I bumped up the rating, but there still won’t be anything explicit. READ THE WARNINGS.
> 
> Warnings: violence, blood, mentions of past child abuse (non-explicit), mentions of sexism

The Archmagus was late. The crowds were cheering, clapping, betting, banners and kerchiefs floating through the agitated air as swords, shields, and spears clashed in the arena from which rose clouds of sand under the hooves of stallions and the stench of sweat from the skins of fighters. But the Archmagus was late. Late to the tourney held in the honour of his own appointment. 

And that alone irked King James Ironwood of Atlas. For the King disliked tourneys, hated anyone being late, and above all couldn’t stand having to watch the tedious spectacle alone. The Queen had excused her absence due to ill health, and knowing what just befell Lady Hill, her husband had little trouble accepting that. Sir Ebi guarded the royal box at the best vantage point over the arena, as usual, but he had been too occupied with ongoing investigations to catch any sleep, rendering him too tired to entertain his monarch. Hence why King James was irked. 

“I apologise for being late,” Qrow muttered, finally stepping into the box behind Ironwood’s throne. “I hit my head against a window or three on my way here.”

Ironwood had trouble understanding how someone who defeated armies in the span of seconds struggled with opening and closing mere glass panels, but his guardsman apparently took the news in stride under James’ watchful eye.

“This must be why your hair is in such disarray,” Clover said, quickly running his fingers through the Mage’s silky locks to rearrange them. 

“Thank you, Captain,” the Archmagus smirked, nuzzling ever so slightly into the touch before taking his seat at the left of the King. “Your assistance is much appreciated.”

Myriads of gazes in the audience lifted from the ongoing melee fight to linger upon Qrow’s silhouette as he sat down, causing him to shiver almost imperceptibly. Almost imperceptibly, but enough for the King’s sharp eyes to notice. James’s fingers itched to reach over and take Qrow’s hand, to comfort and support his wizard, but he was well aware of the eyes riveted on them, of that sensation of being watched raising goosebumps upon his skin, that sensation that never went away even after years in power. And the last thing King James wanted would be that the audience believed Archmagus Branwen was somehow chosen for his dalliances with the monarch rather than his competence for the title.

Then Qrow blinked, and one of the combatants’ stallions neighed loudly among the mess of combatants, sliding several feet in the sand and attracting the audience’s attention back on the melee fight unfolding beneath their eyes. Finally catching a breath of air as their box shifted out of the public’s focus, James turned to Qrow, only to feel the Mage’s slender fingers intertwined with his own, seemingly of their own volition.

“Don’t worry, I made everyone else happen to look in the other direction,” Qrow whispered conspiratorially.

“Did you read my mind?” the troubled King murmured back.

“You mind was practically screaming to be saved from this torture.”

“Why, are  _ you  _ enjoying watching my own knights pretending to kill one another for spectacle?”

“Nope.”

The slightest hint of a smile in Qrow’s voice was enough to warm the King’s heart.

“Thought as much.”

“Even though it seems like your guards are all teaming up against that one knight right now...”

The melee had unfolded for long minutes before the arrival of the Archmagus, and handfuls of knights had already fallen under the weapons of their adversaries. After all, the only rule stipulated that the last one standing would be crowned the victor. Among the few opponents left were unsurprisingly two members of the royal guards, Sir Elm Ederne and Sir Vine Zeki, allied against an unknown helmed knight in golden armour whose shield had been shattered somewhere among the melee. With terrifying, rehearsed synchrony, the two guards dived toward the golden soldier, ready to destroy everything, everyone on their path. 

The King was at loss of ideas as to the source of that animosity, his own thoughts and his disinterest in this form of entertainment that seemed to enrapture the crowds distracting him from the unfolding fight. 

“Any idea why your men hate this one competitor so much, Sir Ebi?” Qrow asked, tilting his head to the side.

“I… I believe they must’ve met in the tents earlier today when getting armoured,” the Captain shrugged, clearly focused on staying awake on his too tired feet and on the state of Qrow’s head of hair. “I’m not sure I know that particular knight.”

“Hmm. Something about them looks familiar,” the Archmagus uttered, unconvinced.

A one-handed swing of Elm’s hammer caught an opponent in the chest, sending him flying off his horse and into the flagpoles by the wayside. With swift, lethal grace, Vine’s morningstar lashed out, wrapping itself around an unfortunate knight’s wrist, disarming her of her sword and slamming her with full force onto the sandy floor. The whole time, Zeki and Ederne held their lances pointed forward, aiming at the same target that was the mysterious golden fighter.

Their spearheads struck with deadly precision before their enemy could gallop away, Elm’s denting the golden plate covering the soldier’s sternum while Vine’s collided with the opponent’s armoured back - the force from both impacts enough to wring the unknown fighter out of their saddle, crashing into the ground with a loud clatter of armour against sand. But the golden knight’s horse continued to prance ahead, panicking and dragging its rider by one stirrup still connected to a yellow-armoured foot. The audience gasped as the unknown combatant struggled uselessly, holding an oddly angled wrist under a broken gold gauntlet.

Profiting from the distraction, the last still-mounted competitor aside from the two guardsmen charged at Vine from behind, sword raised high above his head. The knight had lost his helm throughout the battle, revealing a dishevelled head of straw-shaded hair, however his shield proudly bore the coat of arms of the Arc family, symbolising the seven bridges of Arc-en-Ciel in the southeastern moorlands. Sir Arc was fearless and fast, but Zeki’s trained ears noticed his mount’s footsteps - and without even turning to face the blonde, Vine sidestepped the attack and angled his lance sideways. 

Before Sir Arc could rein in his horse, the hard wooden pole slammed into his stomach and snapped in two as he approached at full speed, knocking the winds out of his lungs and propelling him flying through the sandy air. As his body hit the floor, he sputtered a mouthful of blood before falling unconscious at the feet of Elm’s mount. His broadsword had barely managed to slice a thin gash open on the hind leg of Sir Zeki’s destrier.

Through the crowd, a clamour rippled. Followed by silence. For the golden knight’s bloodied hand, amidst the chaos, had caught the corner of their horse’s saddle. And with one powerful, adrenaline-fuelled tug, the competitor had dragged their full weight on horseback again, amongst the cheers of the audience and the waves of colourful kerchiefs. 

“That stallion… I’ve seen it before,” the Archmagus realised staring at the black-as-night, yellow-maned mount the golden fighter rode, much to King’s surprise as well as his own.

The dark destrier stamped the sand in defiance, but Vine and Elm were closing in again, with as much speed and determination as the first time. But before Sir Zeki could thrust the sharp stump of his lance forward, the golden fighter had already swivelled. 

And stood up on their saddle. 

And pounced. 

Pounced, the way barbarians rode in the steppes of the south, riding alongside the winds from the southern mountains. Somersaulting through the air from the back of their horse, well above the lances Elm and Vine pointed, the knight grazed Vine’s feathered helm in mid-air. 

The guardsman struck with his morningstar, only for a golden gauntlet to catch the chain and hold it against Sir Zeki’s neck while landing on the back of his horse. Vine’s slender shoulders attempted to throw the burlier opponent off, while his wounded mount staggered in its step. And while Elm rushed in to help him, it only took his golden foe a savage shove to send Sir Zeki crashing to the floor, promptly pinned down by the mass of his falling horse and taken out of the fight.

“My Royal Guards are the best-trained and best-equipped in Atlas,” King James groaned between gritted teeth and shocked murmurs spread through the audience. “Who is this knight to be able to defy them?”

“Perhaps it is time to train more recruits for your Royal -” Sir Ebi began before being interrupted by a deafening metallic clang.

Sir Ederne’s warhammer traced an irate upward trajectory, and weren’t it for their helmet the golden knight would have found their head pulverised. The yellow-armoured fighter tumbled like a ragdoll, struggling to sit back upright as Elm approached to deliver the final blow and claim the melee tournament’s victory. Unwilling to dishonourably crush her opponent under the hooves of her horse, the guardswoman dismounted, still twirling her hammer in one hand in clear invitation for the golden knight to yield. 

The unknown competitor’s broken stance shifted. And as they swiftly spun through the sand, a cloud of dust arose, temporarily blocking Sir Ederne’s vision. The Royal Guard member recovered quickly… but not enough so to avoid Sir Arc slamming his shield into her calves, as a last ditch effort before collapsing again. Elm fell into a crouch - and when the sand settled, she and the golden fighter were grappling on the ground, to the audience’s surprise and excitation. 

Powerful punches echoed against metal armour, and despite their resilience there was little damage the golden knight’s wounded fists could deal to the broad-shouldered guardswoman. Gaining the upper hand, Elm lifted her warhammer with both hands over her enemy’s head, and the mysterious foe could only wrap their fingers around the weapon’s handle to stop their skull from being crushed.

The full audience held their breath in anticipation, sensing tension creep to its paroxysm. Within the King’s hand, Qrow’s fingers fidgeted nervously, and James gave a quick reassuring squeeze. 

“You know this knight, don’t you?” the monarch whispered. 

But his Mage had no time to answer. With a thunderous echo, the golden knight released the hammer - and shifted in the sand, the crushing mass plummeting a hair’s breadth away from their helmed head. With freed hands covered with chainmail, coated with blood and sand, the mysterious combatant ripped off Sir Ederne’s helm. And punched her tawny cheekbone with a gold-plated iron fist. 

Clearly unexpecting such strength from a floored opponent, Elm loosens her grip on the enemy in the blow’s wake, allowing her mysterious adversary to reverse their positions. Losing no time, the golden knight reached for the closest sword - Sir Arc’s blade still lying by his side in the sand - and brandished it over Sir Ederne’s throat, claiming clear victory in one fell swoop. 

Ever chivalrous, the member of the Royal Guard courteously yielded. But the murmurs in the audience persisted as long as the unknown knight still held the sword high, unmoving, almost as if hesitating, their animalistic ardour was suddenly halted by the end of the fight. Seconds trickled by as rumours travelled through the ranks of the public, only silenced when the victor finally dropped the weapon as though its weight had suddenly increased tenfold, no doubt under the effect of subsiding adrenaline. 

The thin air under that heavy golden helm must have become too hard to breathe, for the knight removed their helmet. A long mane of unkempt blonde curls cascaded down the plates of the golden armour as deep lilac eyes scanned the cheering crowd, scanned until they found the Archmagus, and by his side, the King. 

And James’s acute ears sensed what was whispered around them. 

About how this knight’s unconventional, brutal, efficient style was a breath of fresh air, but less than welcome amongst the Atlesian scene, who still enjoyed their shows to be carefully codified.

About how this knight must’ve been supported by some sleazy patron, for her poor southern aristocratic family could hardly afford entry into the Archmagus’s tourney, let alone such armour adjustments.

About how this knight brought dishonour to her family from the day of her birth, by being an only child and female, and not even gods-touched even though from a long lineage that had borne some of the greatest Mages in the history of Atlas. 

But above all, James’s gloved fingers felt Qrow’s hand tense instants before the Archmagus rose from his seat, ignoring the many pairs of eyes that caught his outburst and noticed his fingers entwined with the King’s, ignoring the crowd, the cheering, the booing, only to utter a single word, a single nickname:

“Firecracker?”

* * *

“Uncle Qrow, did you miss me?”

Ruby stormed into the box like a whirlwind, before even the Captain of the Royal Guard, who by this point was too dead on his feet to guard much more than the suitable state of Qrow’s hair, could stop her from latching around the arm of the Archmagus.

“Nope.”

That hint of gruff affection even in the shortest syllables uttered by Qrow’s voice made the King’s heart melt every time, ever so slightly.

“Qrow, I had surmised you weren’t aware of the presence of Lady Yang Xiao Long and her sister in the Capital.”

“You assume right, Your Majesty,” the Mage nodded while shaking the girl off his arm as if she weighed nothing, much to the astonishment of the King and his guardsman. 

“Then Lady Ruby, if you didn’t come as a ward to Archmagus Branwen, did you and your sister travel here with Lord Xiao Long?” James spoke, bending down to face her eye to eye.

“No… Your Majesty… our father sends his regards but had to stay behind to manage affairs in Patch.”

“You travelled alone?” Qrow wondered aloud. 

“Miss Vernal came with us. She’s helping Yang out of her armour right now.”

Vernal had been employed as lady-in-waiting to Lady Raven Branwen when she married Lord Xiao Long, but had remained loyal to the Patch household as governess to both of Taiyang’s daughters.

“But then, who supported the adjustments of Tai’s armour to fit Yang and her entry into...” the Archmagus started. 

“I did. Lady Rose and Lady Xiao Long are here in the Capital as my wards.”

The occupants of the box all turned toward Sir Ebi as he pronounced those words. 

“Not only are you running yourself ragged running investigations for Jimmy,” Qrow said, staring wide-eyed in astonishment, “but you somehow found the time and the patience to organise Ruby and Yang’s visit to the Capital and Yang’s participation in the tournament?” 

Even after knowing Clover for so many years, the King couldn’t help but marvel at the depth of his guardsman’s heart every time he provided such kindness to people he barely knew. 

“I merely owed these lovely ladies a favour,” the Captain stammered, “and I believe Lady Ruby has something to show you.”

He winked at the young woman encouragingly as she dashed aside with the Archmagus, before an amicable clap on the shoulder from his King caused the guard to flinch in surprise. James wished he could express his appreciation, his admiration, his affection in lengthier ways, but standing in the public eye a pat on the back was all he could manage without attracting attention. 

“Captain, you may take your leave for the remainder of the morning,” the monarch ordered. “Even though your company is always greatly appreciated, you should be getting some rest, and I have Qrow by my side to protect me if need be.”

“Your Majesty, I-”

But just their luck, an urgent yell interrupted them, begging for Qrow’s immediate assistance. 

“It’s Lady Yang!” Miss Vernal called out, her cerulean eyes pleading as she raced toward the Archmagus, holding her skirts up so she could run freely. “She’s been attacked!”

* * *

After having aided the victor out of her armour, Vernal had coated Yang’s wounded hand in a thick leafy onguent, the sharp scent of which made the blonde’s head swim. The circle of swords and daggers decoratively mounted on the wall blurred for a few instants as pain pulsed within her forearm, the medicinal mixture seeping into each slightest cut and scratch on her skin stinging like a thousand bees. Exhaling shakily, Yang sat down on the nearest bench and employed her valid hand to remove her metal leg guards. The mere idea of having to take off her chainmail shirt brought a painful wince to her pale features. 

But at least she’d done it. She’d won, in front of the crowd, of the aristocracy, of the Capital, and no one would look at her in the same way. No one would dare frown at her, at the relatively penniless Xiao Long name of her recluse father, at the cursed Branwen name of her disappeared mother, no one would dare frown at Yang and her family in the same way. Not that they wouldn’t frown, that they wouldn’t murmur as she passed, that they wouldn’t sneer and smirk behind her back, they’d do it with an ounce of respect. For now she’d nearly single-handedly defeated two royal guards, and courtesans' lips should quiver in respect every time they uttered her name.

She’d done it, but she hadn’t fully realised it yet. The purse of golden coins she’d gained rested by her side on the bench, but she hadn’t yet realised. The blood rage of the fight, the pounding passion that kept her going despite the odds, despite the pain, despite the wounds had subsided, and she found herself drained. Drained, hollow, exhausted, craving nothing more than a soft mattress to sleep on and a plentiful luncheon when she next woke, likely famished. For she couldn’t feel hunger yet, only throbbing ache from her wounds against the background of tiredness lulling the back of her mind into blissful slumber.

She hardly noticed the feather-light sound of footsteps before it was too late. A small, nimble hand snatched away her winnings, and when she rose to pursue the thief, a blow caught her in the legs, sending her sprawled across the hard floor. The impact cut the winds from her lungs, leaving her dazed for short seconds as her hands felt around the ground blindly. With some stroke of luck, her valid hand found her attacker’s ankle, shooting sparks of pure pain up her arm. Suddenly trapped, the puny thief reflexively withdrew a dagger hanging on the wall, its blade as thin as the finest parchment. 

The last thing Yang saw before she closed her eyes was glimmering sunlight shining through the window, bright as gold, against the side of the knife.

Then, time stopped. 

Some said one’s life flashed before their eyes before they died. But Yang’s eyes were too wary to see anything but red, her mind too furious to manage anything but command her hand to grasp onto the attacker’s foot firmly, desperately, as if the pain lacing every inch of her fingers never existed. 

There was the stench of blood and metal. She only saw red, but against the red was a flap of black wings. Black wings against the golden sunlight from the window. Somewhere afar, too far, a croak echoed. Ominous, like a warning. 

She may have hallucinated. She may have lost consciousness for brief instants, for the next thing she heard was the clinks of metal upon stone, as a myriad of golden coins clattered against the hard floor. The thief was gone, the prize winnings scattered on the ground, and at the door were standing silhouettes, draped in the cloaks of wizards and mages. 

“Yang, are you hurt?”

That raspy tone sounded like her uncle, but her throat felt too parched to answer, and her eyelids were too heavy for her to check who just spoke.

“Only her injury from the melee,” Vernal judged, peering over the shoulder of the Archmagus. 

“It has been tended to, but I may inspect it if you like,” a female, formal voice commented as the silhouette of an entirely too bright white gown stepped into the room.

“Please, Lady Weiss,” Qrow said.

“There is a trace of dark magic here,” a younger male tone intervened. 

“There is no such thing as dark magic, Whitley,” Weiss retorted, silvery glyphs shimmering around the siblings as they inspected the room and Yang’s injuries. “Only forms of magic that are more or less likely to spiral out of control and cause unwanted damage.”

“You only say so because Archmagus Branwen’s cursed charm just saved your life,” Whitley snapped back immediately.

With a wordless scowl at her brother, Weiss stepped ahead, leaning down to pick up a jet-black feather near Yang’s arm.

“Is that… from a raven?” she wondered.

“Crow,” Whitley protested, shooting a sideways glance at the Archmagus who was occupied listening to Miss Vernal’s account of Yang’s wounds.

“Raven,” Weiss insisted.

“Crow.”

Just as she planned to pout and stamp her foot at her sibling, she remarked weak stirring from the charm pouch at her belt as she approached the feather. When she pulled the bag open to peer inside, the blood magic charm Qrow had given her the previous day shone brighter than the brightest of rubies.

* * *

Peering down at the seemingly endless register, Clover popped another raisin into his mouth. The sweet taste and chewy texture reinvigorated his senses, helping him remain awake as he read through the immense list. The late morning sunlight drifted in through the library’s windows, illuminating the scrawny scribbles sprawling in dark ink across the uneven page. The registers had been brought in by Sir Amin from his trip to nearby towns and abbeys, from Ker-Shion to Oniyuri, recording all the wizards that resided or had travelled through the region in recent weeks. 

The task of finding another truth wizard, in case the Schnees or anyone else made any claims or accusations during Robyn’s comatose state, was crucial. As well as excruciatingly exhausting and boring. And fruitless, since no substantial progress was made after hours of obtaining and reading the lists. Yawning as quietly as possible so as not to alert Lord Bartholomew Oobleck, the royal librarian, the Captain picked up another raisin between his fingers. 

Before he could devour it, a faint tap was heard by the library window. On the other side of the glass, rather clumsily perched on the stone ledge, stood a blackbird with a parchment roll attached to its leg. However small the note was, it looked unusually large compared to the avian, from which Clover deduced it was a crow rather than the usual ravens much of the Capital used to deliver messages. Pushing the window open, the Captain allowed the bird inside, admiring its ebony wings as it glided down to the table at which Sir Ebi had been reading. 

The guardsman gently untied the letter from the bird’s foot, careful not to ruffle the sleek, smooth feathers of its black belly. The bird bent down its head to nuzzle into the Captain’s palm, earning a small gasp of surprise at the sudden display of affection. Startled by the noise, the crow sauntered backward on the table, but didn’t fly off through the open window. Instead, as it groomed its silky wings, its piercing eyes never stopped fixating the knight sitting before the large registers. 

More compelled by the way each black feather appeared coated in the faintest iridescent sheen in the sunlight than by the boring list of names on the parchment, Clover couldn’t help watch and notice he’d never seen that peculiar shade of crimson in a bird’s eyes before. The corvid’s sideways stolen glances were teasing, taunting with self-aware mischievousness he’d never noticed in an animal before, yet the gaze had something vulnerable, a valiant quality in its savage rawness that a human hardly ever dared to display. 

Since the bird didn’t seem intent to leave, Sir Ebi carefully approached with an open palm presenting a raisin atop, hoping the crow would claim his offering. The creature cocked its head inquisitively, before its beak pecked not at the raisin, but at the knight’s fingers, causing him to reflexively retract his hand. When he next stared at the corvid, its crimson glare was unmistakably judgemental, and the Captain took back all manner of positive thought he may have sustained toward his new feathered friend. If this crow carried a distinct distaste for raisins, it was probably not worth his attention. After all, who or what in their right mind would ever dislike raisins? Clover already had another crow to court anyway.

Only after the blackbird had flown off did the knight recall the crumpled missive it had delivered, smoothed it to read a short message: Archmagus Branwen wished to see Clover in his apartments at sunset. 

* * *

After more reading, some rest, more duties, and a light supper, Sir Ebi reached Qrow’s rooms as fast as he could. Dusk had passed, the moon had risen, and the flame of the candle he held swayed at his every step, fleetingly flickering and illuminating the stern portraits on the walls.

Urgent matters had arisen concerning the thief who’d broken into Clover’s own rooms to steal Yang’s winnings. After having easily escaped from the melee tournament’s victor, the robber had fled like water between their fingers, uncaught and unscathed. Witnesses had reported a scrawny, malnourished child with odd eyes, but not much else had been observed from the thief. 

Despite the fright, it wasn’t much cause for worry, for nothing much had been stolen, save for a small handful of coins, whatever could fit in the underfed thief’s tiny fist. Before asking her about the mysterious events surrounding her rescue, the Captain had decided to let Yang catch some rest, recover from her wounds, and collect her thoughts.

The King was probably right that someone at court may have hired the attacker as a part of a plot against Yang, perhaps as a way to get to her uncle, the newly appointed Archmagus. And perhaps, through Qrow, to get to James. 

There wasn’t much Clover could do, rather than reinforce his security detail around his young wards at all times. That, and reassure his monarch that this was likely not part of some larger conspiracy, of some plan against the crown, some tentacular plan that spread with the dark complexity of a spiderweb, in the centre of which Cinder sat, pulling the strings that would lead to James’s downfall and that of those he ever held dear, those he may one day come to hold dear, including Qrow. 

The last few days had been eventful, and connecting the separate happenings as due to a single cause, like one connected the stars to trace out constellations, was only natural, if not necessarily truthful. As per usual, no one had been able to unearth plausible links between the events and Cinder as fast as the King’s sharp mind. And all Clover could hope for was that he’d be able to help his monarch teeter that fine line between insightful deductions keeping him steps ahead of his enemies and paranoid delusions spiralling out of reason, that near-intangible line between genius and madness, inseparable like two sides of a same coin. 

How what Qrow had to say to Clover fit into this obscure, incomplete puzzle was yet to be uncovered. 

When the guards at the door allowed him into Mage Branwen’s quarters, Sir Ebi made a mental note to signal that the rooms should be better-guarded. Qrow’s nonchalant attitude with respect to his own safety, in the light of recent events, was turning rather irksome, and while he could understand the Archmagus’s choices due to the way his powers operated, he wished he could convince him to take his own security more seriously. 

Recognising the Captain of the Royal Guard, the servants scurried aside at his sight as he crossed a series of offices and cabinets, before softly knocking against the painted door of the Mage’s antechamber. No one answered, but the door cracked open, leaving the knight to wonder if it were the doing of Qrow’s magic… until he found the raven-haired man fast asleep at his desk, his head resting against a leather-bound, richly illuminated book. Cursing himself for arriving so late after sunset, Clover contemplated stepping away and leaving Qrow to his repose. But his gallantry suggested he should probably at least help the Archmagus to his bed in the room next door. 

Carefully setting his candle down on the desk, Sir Ebi quietly walked into the study. Under the pale moonlight, the candlelight reflected against the metallic ink details on the open book, catching the knight’s attention. Upon the page was a strikingly adorned image of a mermaid, her hair parted into smooth streams of gold while each scale of her tail glimmered in moonlit silver. Her bared teeth had the fierceness of a wild animal, yet her eyes bore that usual whimsical expression often seen in paintings, that detached expression that may only be found in humans. Intrigued, Clover moved the candle closer to decipher the text beneath the illustration. 

Theologians of the Order of Kuroyuri theorised that merfolk dwelled in cities of silver and palaces of gold beneath the ocean, collecting the treasures from sunken ships for many a century. Their castles were said to reside northwest of Atlas, such that cold southward currents would occasionally carry lone merpeople to the western coast of Atlas, near harbour cities like Argus, Nikos, or Sleetport. 

Merfolk, just like Faunus, couldn’t be gods-touched, but some claimed they’d been observed performing spells of their own, like self-healing from deeper wounds than the superficial work of healer wizards never could cure, or turning their scaly tails into beautiful pearly white human legs overnight. Those accounts were little more than hearsay and legend however, and like many stories from sailors at sea, should be taken with a grain of salt. 

Clover wondered if this was what Qrow wanted to tell him about, given the knight had mentioned his rumoured mer heritage. 

The Captain gently nudged Qrow, but the latter only groaned weakly without waking from his slumber. Before the Mage could drool any more on the expensive parchment of the book, the sight of which would probably make dear old Bartholomew squirm in discomfort, Clover decided he had to carry Qrow to his bed. He picked up the older man’s slender frame from the chair, feeling feathery hair tickling the crook of his neck as he held him against his chest, the soft touch not unlike the feathers of a certain corvid against his skin. 

This wasn’t even the first time Sir Ebi was carrying an unconscious Mage Branwen, he reflected, but at least this time he didn’t knock Qrow out with the pommel of his sword. Yet, how light the man felt in his arms always took him aback momentarily, leaving him to marvel how such a frail body could deal such frightening damage in battle, how such bony shoulders could carry such a heavy weight, carry the fate of the Kingdom itself.

Pushing the bedroom door open, the knight carefully deposited the sleeping Mage into the four-poster bed. Bemoaning the loss of warmth emanating from Qrow’s deep breaths ghosting against his skin, Clover allowed himself to adjust stray strands of dark hair that had fallen onto the other man’s eyes. Cold moonlight enhanced the fine streaks of silver, painting the jet-black hair almost blue. Qrow was shivering slightly in his sleep, and the Captain tugged at the covers to pull them up…

He didn’t expect it when red eyes flew open, and the next fraction of a second a sharp blow impacted Clover in the abdomen, pushing him backward until the back of his head hit one of the wooden pillars of the bed. His skull ringing in sudden pain, he struggled to catch his breath for several seconds. He attempted to stutter an apology for startling Qrow awake, but the Mage only stared back blankly as though he’d seen a ghost. 

“Packing hard punches must run in the family,” the Captain commented shakily. “I see where Yang gets that from.”

“I… I shouldn’t have hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“Qrow, it’s not your fault, it’s not always your fault. I shouldn’t have moved you when you were asleep, that was...”

“No, you shouldn’t. But you couldn’t have known.”

“Please don’t blame yourself. What couldn’t I have known?”

The Archmagus drew in a deep breath. 

“What I promised I’d tell you. What I wanted to tell you about, when I wrote you that note.”

“If you don’t feel inclined now, if you’d rather just go back to sleep, I can leave...”

“No. No, I… think I can tell you now. At least I owe you that, after punching you.”

“Then please tell, but take your time if need be.”

Qrow took shelter under the thick embroidered covers, hugging his knees and resting his chiselled chin atop as he spoke under Clover’s intent gaze. 

“My sister and I were trained in magic by our grandfather. Lord Llyr Branwen was experienced and powerful, but even he couldn’t know much about forms of magic as rare as mine or my sister’s. My chaos magic and her blood magic hadn’t been seen in decades, if not centuries, in all of Atlas, such that our grandfather needed external assistance in our training.”

Having peeled through pages of registers and seen plenty of healers and elemental mages, but no blood magic or chaos magic practitioners, Clover could attest to that fact.

“Regularly, he’d make us stay at a convent of the Church of the Beacon near the seat of our house in the east of the kingdom. The church wizards and novices there weren’t extraordinarily skilled, but they were aplenty, and our grandfather hoped the wizards mentoring the children there would have had experience with powers at least similar to my sister’s or mine. In a way, he was right. In a way, that helped me become the capable Mage you see me as, these days.”

“But?” Clover prompted softly, noting the distinct edge of bitterness in Qrow’s tone. 

“They were knowledgeable from books and old treaties, but had no idea what to do in practice when it came to reining in my chaos magic. They liked Raven, in a way, but they hated me, because my wretched power was a puzzle they couldn’t solve. So I had to work harder to earn their favours, so they’d write letters that’d make our grandfather proud. Luckily for me, though I never thought I’d phrase it that way, if they didn’t find much value in my magic, they did find value in my silky hair and scrawny legs. And you know what your King says, that wizards have promiscuous manners, just like every rumour it carries a kernel of truth.”

“By the gods, Qrow...”

Clover remembered Llyr Branwen died when Qrow was fifteen, so this must have happened even earlier. The Captain looked again at those locks of ashen hair, and felt disgust. He looked at those pale, even features, those soft lips caressed by moonlight, and felt disgust. He looked at those long, endless legs, and felt disgust. He’d heard of the manners of the church and its wizards, and yet he hadn’t been prepared to hear that. Hadn’t been prepared to imagine old, wrinkled, disgusting fingers tugging at the soft black hair Clover had begun to find familiar, had begun to revere and adore, tugging until old fingerprints left their mark in Qrow’s very mind. 

“So now you understand why I don’t understand that people would find value in anything else of me,” the Archmagus whispered like an apology.

“You have value, Qrow. You have value, beyond that of your body, beyond even that of your magic, which is one of the most powerful this Kingdom has ever seen in recent years. You have value, and I know that telling you is not enough, may never be enough. But I wish to tell you that I find you have value.”

The way those crimson eyes widened in surprise hurt to see, for no one should be astounded to find that others treated them with respect, with courtesy, with caring, without ulterior motives. Stray tears gathered at the corner of Qrow’s eyes, and the Captain wanted to move in to wipe them, but he feared his touch would startle Qrow again. He recalled how savage their first kiss had been, how the Mage had surrendered himself utterly, all but inviting Clover to revel his brokenness, to break him further just so he could feel alive, so he could feel valued. The knight wouldn’t want to touch Qrow again until they both knew it wasn’t to hurt him, wound him under his armour of snarky confidence, until they could both be certain of that.

“I... Thank you, Clover. You’re right, it’s not enough right now, but it was… useful to hear, all the same. My sister must have heard something similar, but it wasn’t enough for her. In later years, I found out the same  _ favours  _ had been done to her, if not worse… you can imagine what appeal old sterile male wizards could have found in a young maiden like Raven. She never fully moved on, even when she had to marry Tai. Even when she had to bear him their first child...”

“Lady Yang,” the Captain finished, realising how much disappointment, how much disgust that daughter must have elicited even in her mother, as a reminder of surrendering her body to another.

“When Raven found out it was a daughter, she couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t stand the idea of going through child-bearing again, Tai knew it, we all knew it. I tried to talk to her, but it was too little, too late. We should have talked to one another way earlier, but we didn’t, and then it was too late, and she left.”

“You’re already incredibly brave for opening up right now. I understand that the thought of opening up to her back then must have been impossibly hard, especially since such… practices are believed to be so widespread in the church.”

Those issues were much larger than them, and Qrow and Raven had just been pawns on a chessboard where the patterns repeated themselves, game after game.

“But it could have been, in part, my fault that she had a daughter in the first place. My powers were a little better back then than at the convent, drinking definitely helped, but it wasn’t before my exile years that I managed to keep them mostly in check.”

Clover’s fists clenched intuitively.

“You were a victim of abuse, Qrow. Don’t you think that could have played a role in the fact your powers revolted against your treatment and spiralled out of control?”

“I... ”

“I’m not done yet. You were a victim of abuse, and you survived. And you managed to heal some of those scars, some of the effects that vile treatment had on your magic, through sheer determination and the strength of your heart. Don’t let anyone tell you that’s not valuable, that’s not incredible, that’s not pure courage and valiance. Don’t let anyone tell you you’re any less than that.”

The Captain could only hope those words could convey the genuine admiration he felt, rather than hypocrisy, rather than pity. After all, he hadn’t given Qrow that much to trust him from, after knocking him unconscious at the campment, after attempting to move him in his sleep… After all his strange, perhaps unwarranted favours like cutting Qrow’s hair, like inviting his nieces to the Capital...

“You have no idea what those words mean to me. You have no idea how much I want to trust you.”

“But… what if… I’m like them?” the knight stammered, looking at the finely embroidered patterns on the blanket.

“You’re not like them. I can’t read your mind, but I can hope you’re not like them.”

A gentle breeze must have extinguished the candle on the study, but in the pallid moonlight, the fire ablaze within Qrow’s irises was a sight to behold - that hopeful flame that never died through so many storms, through the misfortunes of life and destiny, that only grew stronger and shone brighter through the cracks.

“Thank you. Then I swear I’ll never disappoint you.”

Those were simple words, but Clover would never forgive himself if he didn’t live by them.

“... Can I hold you?”

“Please.”

Reaching out of the bed covers, the Archmagus pulled Clover into a tight embrace. Slender arms firmly wrapped around the knight’s shoulders brought little warmth, but at least felt stable, like an anchor, like a lifeline. Qrow smelled like parchment, ink, and dust, and the fresh wetness of tears seeped through the fabric of the Captain’s shirt. But the Mage held on as if to never let go, and the knight found himself longing that this would last forever. 

Or at least, until they both pulled away to yawn, quasi-simultaneously. 

“You smell like raisins,” Qrow commented, slightly wrinkling his nose.

“I should leave you to sleep,” Clover said. “The duelling rounds of the tournament start tomorrow morning, and we should both be on time.”

“I still need to tell you something. I think I figured out some of what Ozpin had been willing to leave behind for me… but it doesn’t make sense. All I’ve gathered is something to do with turning into birds.”

“Is that why you were reading about merfolk? Because they’re believed to be capable of metamorphosis, and you think this has something to do with them?”

“Partly. But also because mermen are beautiful, and they remind me of you.”

That look in Qrow’s eyes meant the world to Clover, and then some.

“Do you think any of what you found could relate to Oscar’s disappearance? Or to Cinder?”

“The only one whom this could relate to is my sister, as far as I can see.”

The knight felt his heart dropping in his chest, and the temperature plummeting suddenly, albeit subtly. That obsession that had been growing in James for a believed-dead sister he couldn’t save, that obsession that prevented him from ever truly loving again, ever truly loving Clover back… was it the broken mirror of that obsession he could perceive in Qrow? Were neither of the men he felt affection for freed enough from the ghosts of their past to ever be able to return Clover’s feelings?

“Qrow, we’re both tired, I think I should leave you to sleep. Good night...”

“Please, stay?” the Mage pleaded.

“But I...”

But I’ll hurt you, I’ll give you flashbacks if I touch you like they touched you, I’ll give you nightmares, if I don’t wake you with nightmares of my own…

“Please, Clover.”

The knight inhaled slowly. Exhaled slowly. 

“I will.”

He wanted to say he’d try, but it sounded ridiculous to try to stay the night, as if that could be something he’d fail. And yet, the mere thought of failing, of damaging Qrow’s most precious trust, his most precious heart, terrified him more than facing a whole garrison by himself with only his sword in hand. And yet, he wanted to try, and wanted nothing more than that, whatever their nightmares may unleash at them.

Unaffected by the chill night, Clover rested atop the covers while Qrow nested underneath, the current of heat seeping between their skins through the layers of blankets lulling them to sleep like a gentle tide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t write short chapters these days. I’m sorry. I also realise I’m screwed because there was supposed to be one chapter on the tournament, but I found out I can’t cover everything in less than three chapters, so the next chapter will have the duel/one on one tournament until the semifinals, and the one after that will have the final round. But I want to keep to my count of 13 chapters because 13 is a nice number, I guess, wish me luck, kinda.
> 
> Any resemblance with real world issues is *not* coincidental. Child abuse was perceived differently back then as compared to now, but in either context it is most definitely not okay. Next chapter will lay a lot more heavily on the racism stuff, so be warned. (It’s always been an important topic to me, which you probably know if you’ve read the stuff with the Augments in REAPER IV. If you haven’t read REAPER IV, go read that, or rather, read the warnings of that first, and then go read that). Till then, stay safe xx


	7. Camera Obscura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qrow: I wonder who’s the most eligible bachelor in all of Atlas  
> James and Winter: *stare a clover*  
> Clover: *munchin on raisin* wut  
> Qrow: w u t

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, yet another endless chapter. Through the tournament arc and until the end really, violence and blood warnings are a given, so just assume they’re there if I don't tag everytime. Warning: endless chapter should also be a thing that's also there.
> 
> Warnings: mentioned sexism, anti-Faunus racism, very brief mention of Qrow’s past, brief mention of child abuse because fuck Jacques Schnee

The sunlight only started to seep through the arrow slits on the thick wall as King James ascended the strenuous spiral staircase. Irregular golden light dappled the rough stone steps, and peering through the semi-darkness to secure his footing, the monarch picked up the pace to reach the top of the astronomy tower before daybreak. He sensed cold humidity soaking the wall through the velvet of his glove as he pressed his palm to the handrail for support, the faint scent of mould floating in the morning air. Despite the unpleasant smells, he pressed on nonetheless, not only for he hated being late, but also because he was to meet his Archmagus on the top floor of the tower.

In truth, James had never set foot within the Camera Obscura since it had been moved to the astronomy tower of his palace. The Camera Obscura was for the usage of the Archmagus alone, and the monarch spending any time there was usually seen as a waste of his precious hours that should be reserved to attending to important matters of state. However, James had insisted on a new approach, on trusting his new Archmagus fully, and it was only fair if Qrow had in return invited his King to see the Camera Obscura the first time he operated it. 

When he finally came in sight of the wooden door and its rusted iron lock, the comments of a distinctively familiar voice reached his ears. 

“We should add some blankets here. It gets cold after a while if one sits still, which is part of what this kind of magic requires.”

“Understood, Archmagus Branwen,” a younger, female voice noted, followed by the scratching sound of a stylus as she must be frantically scribbling down ‘blankets’.

“And a couch or pillows,” Qrow added, and James fondly imagined the Mage must be resting his hand against his hip as paced around the room, considering what changes should be made. 

“Pillows, sir?” she echoed, dumbfounded. 

“It’ll hurt less if someone falls over.”

“Why would someone...”

“It seems to be all I’m doing these days. Falling over after hitting my head on things, and falling asleep at my desk… it’s not very comfortable. Hence the pillows.”

“Noted, sir. Should I allow His Majesty inside?”

The King heard a snap of fingers, and the door swiveled open, no doubt under the effect of Qrow’s powers. 

“Your Grace,” the girl immediately greeted, leaning down to kiss the diamond ring on her monarch’s gloved hand. 

Her blood-red eyes looked up at him in reverence, the stern bowl cut of her green hair and the chains adorning her wizard cloak indicating she was part of the Order of Kuroyuri. 

“Lady Sustrai, Archmagus Branwen,” the King responded cordially.

Unlike the Order of the Beacon, the largest church in Atlas that contained barely a handful of wizards within its ranks for purposes that ranged from healing those that sought a safe haven in temples to teaching the young, the Order of Kuroyuri, in the forest of Kalambra, was much more modest in size and comprised uniquely of the gods-touched. While the Beacon church aimed to preach the word of the gods and guide the populace along the rightful divine way, the mission of Kuroyuri was to seek knowledge on the Arch, the gods, and their laws that governed the natural world. Ozpin himself had hailed from the Order of the Beacon, but it wasn’t surprising he’d chosen a wizard apprentice from the Order of Kuroyuri to maintain the Camera Obscura, given their relative expertise on the functioning of the Arch. 

“Hey, Jimmy,” Qrow waved cheekily, and James felt his heartbeat accelerate at those simple words. “Good to see you.”

“Good to see you are capable of being on time.”

“You will find that I can be quite the early bird,” the Mage teased back, shooting his King an affectionate look. “I intended to prepare things here for your visit, but it wasn’t necessary. Lady Emerald has been keeping things here in excellent condition, and few changes are needed.”

Mounted on complex metal frames and steered by cogs and wheels of assorted shapes and sizes, large lenses and mirrors reflected and refracted the sunlight through the only window of the otherwise dark room. But not any sunlight, specifically the rays that traversed the Eye of the Arch, allowing to project onto the Camera Obscura’s floor everything that magic was able to witness around Atlas. 

As Qrow and Emerald adjusted the lenses, against the black carpet was projected an overhead panorama of the western coast of the Kingdom and its port cities, that drifted like a bird’s eye view to the southwestern steppes, separated from the southern sea by the tall, proud, young mountains. They shifted the mirrors further, and then the eastern marshes filled the field of projection, followed by the hills and the old mountain range of Arkanys, the seat of house Schnee, before re-centering the display so they could see the walls and streets of the Capital, its busy population moving like termites before their eyes. 

“Was there anything in particular you wished to show me, Qrow?” James wondered, only marvelling at how everything seemed in order and under control and worrying there must be something amiss.

“If I look north,” Qrow spoke while Emerald consequently adjusted the displays, “why can’t I see the wall? Why is there only black from the wall and upward of it?”

They stared down to notice the line where the projection ended and the darkness started, the map that melted away into terra incognita on the carpet.

“In the latest notes from Archmagus Ozpin and the mission reports from Sir Amin, it has been claimed that the Breachers have come to bury the remains of their dead near the wall, and even in the interstices between the bricks of the wall,” the King answered. 

“The Breachers? They’ve become smart enough to do that, to use their dead to make sure we can’t see the wall with our magic since the Eye is blind to the Breachers, and I only get to know now? Is this common knowledge? Emerald, did you know?”

“No, sir,” she stammered, looking down at her feet. 

“Such information would spread panic within the Atlesian people, which could lead to unrest,” James explained. “Besides, the Breachers haven’t yet attacked the population of major cities yet.”

“But they’ve been wreaking havoc up north in the villages mostly people by Faunus,” Qrow countered, crimson eyes shining brightly in the semi-obscurity.

“Hence why it is a priority to deal with this issue, and why I’d sent Ozpin there in person. Magic cannot be used to fix the wall from a distance because it cannot be  _ seen  _ from a distance, so Ozpin needed to travel there. The only reason I’m not sending you there right now is that it didn’t go well when I sent Ozpin, and I don’t want to lose another Archmagus so soon.”

Nor did James want to lose Qrow, after finally finding a friend, someone who’d talk to him as an equal rather than as a subordinate, after so many years of loneliness at the top. 

“So we’ll have to find a way,” the Mage said, running oblivious fingers through his hair, while hope and determination remained unflinching in his mesmerising vermillion gaze. 

“We will, but I would prefer if you at least wait until the end of the tourney in your honour before leaving for the wall.”

James knew the trip north may well be a journey with no return. And James knew Qrow was lonely too, if in his own, distinct way. And the King wished nothing more than to at least get to know his new Mage, to get to remember him, to map that face, that mind and be able carry on his memory and legacy memoirs and history parchments if he had to sacrifice his life up north for the good of the Kingdom. 

“Speaking of the tourney, shouldn’t we get going, if you refuse to be late again?”

“I wasn’t late yesterday,” the King retorts with the slightest hint of a smug smile, “speak for yourself, Qrow.”

A smirk of his own stretching over his lips, Qrow leant in to whisper into James’s ear. 

“But admit those fights are nowhere near as enjoyable without me here to hold your hand.”

“They were barely tolerable.”

They barely waited for Emerald to close the door behind them to intertwine their fingers again, before walking all the way down the spiral staircase side by side.

* * *

The crowd cheered and clapped as the champion of the current round waved, her sword proudly pointed skyward, toward the clear azure only artfully punctuated with the right amount of small white clouds. Sunlight filled the arena with warmth, but the temperature within the royal box seemed as cold as on the first day of snow.

“I regret, Qrow, but I cannot accede to this request,” the King stated.

“But your Majesty...” Clover insisted, paying no mind to the fights unfolding before them and knowing full well which champion would win - the reputation of Sir Pyrrha Nikos, undefeated in tourneys over the last few years, was widespread among the Capital. “If the Archmagus himself believes that Lady Ruby bears promise as a wizard, and her presence at court is admittedly good for Qrow, why not allow him to take her on as his apprentice?”

“Even if her magical prowess were promising,” James retorted, “the Archmagus would be scrutinised by the court for choosing a member of his own family over more well-known and experienced candidates from noble bloodlines at court. The title of apprentice to the Archmagus practically puts one next in line to become the next Archmagus, or the mother superior of a major convent if the child’s female. Assigning that title should not be done lightly.”

“Ruby has all the qualities of magic and mind to blossom in that role,” Qrow said. “She may not be visibly powerful to the unknowing eye yet, but her ability is unique, and I was in a similar position around when I was her age.”

“Qrow,” James sighed, “I care for you as well as for Lady Ruby, and I do not wish her to have to shoulder such a burden and be under such constant attention throughout her formative years, especially since the court won’t take long to notice her skill is nowhere near up to par with that of peers of her age, like Wizard Pine or Mage Schnee. I remember the previous gods-touched children Ozpin chose as his apprentices, how they were perceived for having been chosen, and how it all ended in ruin. All before he chose Oscar Pine, a baseborn boy but with undeniable talent not unlike Ozpin’s own.”

“What tells you that I can’t take more apprentices, besides Ruby?” the Mage snarled. “I know Ozpin only had one at a time, and that this has been the norm, but weren’t you intent on trying a new approach?”

“You have many duties already as Archmagus, including regulating the practice of magic by travelling wizards throughout the kingdom, within the churches of Beacon and Kuroyuri, and within the court and noble families. Not even considering your duties to serve the crown.”

“Qrow has a point, your Majesty,” the Captain intervened, leaning over the back of the monarch’s chair. “It would be of crucial importance if the Archmagus could dedicate some of his time to train the next generation of wizards waiting in the wings.”

“Preaching and teaching the way of the gods has always been the duty of the church, not that of my Archmagus,” James countered.

“Well, Ruby deserves to learn how to harness her powers,” Qrow sighed, “but I won’t send her off to a convent to study magic, and I’m sure Tai wouldn’t either.”

“How can you tell that you’ll know better when it comes to teaching?” the King snapped back, rubbing his nose in irritation. “Weren’t you trained by your Lord Llyr and by a convent, like most of the gods-touched noble children?” 

James realised his mistake as soon as his words spilled out of his lips. He expected Qrow to shout back, but the wizard only blinked quickly, paling as his clammy hands tightly gripped the arm of his seat. When he finally spoke, his lips were quivering, and his crimson eyes staring bashfully at the King through long, trembling eyelashes. 

“You don’t have any idea of what my education was like, of what I’ve been through.”

“Yes, I do have an idea,” James spoke solemnly. “And I apologise if my choice of words was in poor taste. But who gets to become your apprentice is a matter of state as much as it is a personal matter, and we cannot allow your past to entirely cloud your judgement. I can send a personal preceptor to Patch to -”

“My past? Clouding  _ my  _ judgement?” Qrow interrupted. “Look who’s talking, Jimmy. You wouldn’t be so bitter about me taking a female family member under my wing if it weren’t for your bastard sister Cinder, Ozpin’s first apprentice, the one who set a temple and all its occupants on fire on a tantrum. If it weren’t for my own sister, whose only crime was to have been unfortunate enough to be Ozpin’s apprentice during that one year where the winter was harsh, the Blackdust was raging, and your first wife and her infant son lost their lives to that plague. If you weren’t so caught up in the past, you’d have realised the ghost of Cinder isn’t the main threat to your reign, and you’d have taken care of protecting those poor Faunus villages up north against the Breachers, you’d have taken care of your actual, still alive people.”

The resurfacing memories flooded James’s mind as if they’d never faded, wiping away any traces of the counterarguments he’d thought of, and even finding words became unbearably difficult.

“Qrow, I...”

“I need a break, enjoy the rest of the fights.”

And with a wave of his hand to summon some happenstance that’d distract the crowd’s attention away, the Archmagus rose from his chair and left the arena. 

“Your Majesty,” Clover said after a period of silence. “If I may be excused, should I… go after him?”

But James knew his guardsman too well not to detect the reluctance even in his ever cordial, smooth as silk tone. 

“You don’t want to talk to him,” James answered, “because you fear he’ll disapprove of you telling me what befell to Qrow in that convent.”

“I had only surmised you needed to know, and it wasn’t that much of a surprise seeing this kind of behaviour from church wizards is unfortunately not unheard of. And I had assumed it would hurt him too much to tell you, so I did it for him.”

“Perhaps you did well, but I order you not to go after him now. Just stay here… and distract me.”

The King just needed to remain seated there for the eyes of the audience, just needed to think about anything else, anything at all, other than the argument that just occurred, the memories it just brought back, the old scars it just reopened.

“Then maybe Your Grace will find that the beautiful duel being fought right now is a good distraction,” the Captain proposed with a small smile.

Clover seemed better-rested than on the previous day, James noted, and that brought some warmth to his heart. The bags beneath his sea green eyes had started to fade, and his disposition was more open, as if he’d had a good night’s sleep. The shade of his skin had regained some of its colour, and the King couldn’t help but admire the way rivulets of golden sunlight poured down his bare shoulders, highlighting their perfect proportions. 

As the Captain avoided his gaze, only then was Ironwood reminded he should focus on the tourney, and not on the musculature of his guardsman. And Clover was right, it was beautiful in its own way. Pyrrha had unsurprisingly advanced to the semifinals, so had Sir Harriet Bree of the Royal Guard. Amidst the golden sand, the two knights clashed in an impressive display of skill. Harriet struck, parried, danced away like lightning, sand still floating in mid-air along her trajectory as she retreated and attacked again. 

Pyrrha held her shield up to block, while her sword hand executed a short flourish before raising her shortsword, attempting a downward strike. As swift as ever, her opponent dodged by bending backward acrobatically, before converting her momentum to spin around and kick Sir Nikos in the knee guard. Sliding backwards while her red ponytail whipped her shoulders, Pyrrha planted her blade in the sand to slow herself to a stop, and immediately raised her sword and shield in a perfect, impenetrable posture once more.

“I begin to see the similarities in your styles,” the King remarked toward Clover, “you and Sir Nikos used to spar frequently in the past, if I recall.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, Nikos and Argus are neighbouring port cities, a short boat ride away across the bay from each other, and my family and hers visited one another quite frequently. When we were younger I had the privilege to train Lady Pyrrha in the arts of combat. She is focused and relentless, perfectly suited to duelling.”

The King knew this, his Captain had told him many times before. But James would rather listen to Clover’s smooth, soothing voice fondly recalling the past than hear the roaring silence in his head, the silence begging him to leave the arena and run after Qrow...

“Then you taught her well, Sir Ebi. Even though I don’t doubt you had a hand in training Sir Bree as well, as a member of your Guard, to perform this admirably.”

James tried to smile cordially as he spoke, to keep a regal facade for the watching crowds, but he sensed a twinge in his heart when Clover beamed genuinely in return, radiating like sunshine at the compliment. 

“I am honoured to hear it, Your Majesty. But a guard is trained to be alert always, to be ready to strike immediately at any enemy, in any direction, no matter the number of opponents. Not to focus for a long time on a single enemy who’s equally experienced and well-equipped.”

And the King started to notice it - Harriet was straining, her bursts of acceleration draining her stamina, and her strikes became ever so slightly imprecise as the duel dragged on, her feet sliding on the sandy floor. Nevertheless, her trained reflexes allowed her to narrowly avoid each attack, ducking below her opponent’s sword to slide past her and slash at an opening between Pyrrha’s shoulder blades. Without turning to look, the redhead placed her shield behind her back, and let herself fall backwards. 

Silence suddenly echoed through the arena as the crowd held its breath.

As the pressure of Sir Bree’s blade against her shield kept her from plummeting to the ground, Pyrrha pounced atop the shield into a graceful backflip, twirling both her legs in mid-flight to lock them against her enemy’s neck. Harriet tried to swivel within the redhead’s grip, her sword lashing out and grazing her opponent’s cheek. But Sir Nikos’s weight as she landed sent both of them falling into the sand, with Pyrrha pinning the guardswoman down. As the redhead used her shield to constrict the other knight’s airways and prevent her from wringing free, Harriet pounded the ground with her palm in sign of surrender. 

Under the cheers of the audience, both women staggered to their feet as a herald announced Pyrrha would be moving on to the final round. Wiping the blood off the cut on her cheekbone with the back of her hand, the redhead waved courteously at the audience with her other arm. The collective clapping intensified at that, but the King took no notice, for the silence remained in his head until he realised he could leave and run after Qrow.

* * *

To the monarch’s surprise, the Archmagus hadn’t gone far, such that James hadn’t struggled to find him during the break between duels by the stables next to the arena. Ironwood convinced his guards to stay at a distance while he addressed the wizard, wishing to grant him some intimacy. Amidst the whinnies of horses and the smell of fresh straw, Qrow was busy sparring with Ruby, smiles never leaving their faces as their blunt swords clashed repeatedly. 

The King quirked an eyebrow - he hadn’t seen an Archmagus show interest in the art of swordsmanship before, since it was often unnecessary to wielders of such levels of magic to fight with a vulgar piece of metal, and the Archmagus usually had guards for that. For sure, Ozpin would never have dedicated time or effort to trade blows and parries with anyone, least of all a child. Qrow’s niece wasn’t faring badly, her sloppy gestures and lack of trained discipline compensated by her ever-overflowing energy and her unwavering determination, a quality James had noticed in her elder sister and that would no doubt carry both young women far.

As she spun around for yet another attack, Ruby noticed the King observing them - allowing Qrow to take advantage of her distraction and disarm her. Following her silver gaze, the Mage quickly realised his monarch’s presence and followed his niece in bowing respectfully. James felt his breath hitch in his throat as Qrow’s smile vanished from his lips, and his niece shifted nervously, agitated fingers adjusting the folds of her skirt. 

“Qrow, I only came to apologise,” the King said. “What I said concerning your past was uncalled for. I should’ve known better.”

“Look, I shouldn’t have brought up your late wife, Queen Amber either,” Qrow drawled in return. ”Or your sister, even though I’d wager she wasn’t entirely wrong in roasting a handful of church wizards to ashes when she burnt down that temple.”

“Does this mean you accept my apologies?” the King said hopefully, tentatively holding out a hand only to have Ruby’s sword tossed at him, prompting him to wrap his fingers around the handle to reflexively catch. 

“Why don’t we fight it out, Jimmy? Show the kids how it’s done?” Qrow’s smirk returned, this time with a twinkle of mischievousness as he exchanged a conspiratorial look with Ruby. “Or are you afraid you’re out of practice these days, with Sir Cloves always there to watch your behind?”

“I should remind you that  _ these days _ Sir Ebi has been hard at work watching  _ your  _ shapely behind at least as much as mine,” the King quipped back, easily pointing his sword forward in a high guard position. 

“Then let’s see what you’re made of,” his Archmagus challenged, twirling his blade for added speed as he sprung ahead to strike. 

Ignoring the unfortunate choice of words, James confidently angled his blunt blade to block - Qrow was no doubt competent with a sword, but there was little chance he would be a threat to a seasoned military leader who’d won countless battles like Ironwood. Yet, the King found that each of the Mage’s blows, albeit somewhat imprecise, carried slightly more weight than expected, pushing James back slowly but surely.

“Are you sure you’re not a little rusty?” Qrow teased as the monarch deflected a sweeping slash. 

“You’re just… stronger than I thought.”

“I’d love to claim the credit, but that’s be the sword,” the Archmagus answered. “Some natural elements like the metal in this blade can have different weights while retaining the same properties. The heavier versions of the same elements are usually more rare, but you know what I can do to probabilities. Just a party trick to even out the playing field.”

“You should give yourself more credit than that,” the King remarked, manoeuvring around Qrow’s attacks until he could get used to the heavier sword and evade it to use its momentum against his sparring partner.

As his back almost met a wooden beam supporting the stables, James grabbed his own sword blade with his free hand to push Qrow’s blade back. Tilting his weapon to land a glancing blow, the King moved out of the way of his adversary’s riposte, allowing Qrow’s blade to impale the pole behind his back. As he attempted to extract the heavy weapon, James pinned him to the wooden surface, feeling his panting breaths caress his neck. Their faces stood impossibly close, giving the monarch a perfect vantage point on the deep red shade of his Mage’s eyes, mirroring his slightly flushed ivory cheeks and his parted lips gasping for air.

“Alright… I accept your apologies… or at least I’ll try to… now let me go,” the Archmagus whispered, and though James released his grip on the other man’s shoulders, he struggled to step away from Qrow, from his fascinating, intoxicating presence drawing the King in slowly, inexorably…

“I appreciate it,” the King murmured back, “but please understand that my decision regarding your niece is final.” 

Even the tense air they both breathed tasted bitter. 

“I know.”

A strange sensation was pooling at Ironwood’s heart - and it took him an instant to recognise it as fear. Fear of that unchartered territory that was what he felt for Qrow, of the sudden sensations that man elicited in him, of being distracted by such sentiments while his Kingdom needed his attention more than ever. Fear of that emotion he’d forgotten existed, after years of taming his own feelings for Clover, as for nothing in the world would he dare jeopardise the brotherly bond he’d forged with his Captain of the guard. Fear of not knowing how to acknowledge those feelings without hurting the objects of his affections. Fear of repeating past mistakes, reawakening half-forgotten nightmares. Fear that his nightmares, that his dreams, his dread of Cinder’s return after what she’d done to him and his people, his forbidden passion for those two men, for his guardsman, for his Archmagus, would be unveiled for all to see… starting with Ruby, for it was undoubtedly inappropriate to act so overtly on James’s feelings towards her uncle before her innocent eyes. 

When the King stepped away to turn to the silver-eyed girl, she was already walking off, leaving the two older men with the intimacy they seemed to require. But in the stable behind them, a horse neighed in panic at her departure, and as James recognised Yang’s golden-maned black steed, Qrow had to step away from James to calm the nervous creature. 

* * *

The naming of the new Archmagus and ensuing ceremony had brought unusual life and agitation to the streets of the Capital, and even through the narrowest, most uneven cobbled alleyways wafted the sweet scent of flowers and the merry melodies of travelling bards. 

As Ruby stepped under flamboyant flags and garish garlands hanging from a roof to another, amongst dancing and clapping crowds, she noticed a troupe of jugglers, fire eaters, fortune-tellers… so much left to explore of the Capital, and yet she had so little time left. Her uncle had already attempted to explain the King’s decision regarding her apprenticeship to her, had already attempted to convince her that it was for her own protection. And the least she could do at present was enjoy her time here before travelling back to Patch. 

The audience gasped as a juggler, standing upside down on his hands to toss a dozen throwing knives and other sharp and pointy objects using his feet, sending them flying in dangerously blurry dances while his assistant kept supplying him with more assorted objects. Pushed upward with a swift kick, one of the projectiles strayed from its usual course, and Ruby’s heart missed a beat as it fell toward the juggler’s assistant - who immediately  _ ate  _ it whole. As fast as the puny girl had opened her mouth to catch the object, her small hands withdrew it from down her throat, and the crowds cheered at the sight of the intact parasol, as it took Ruby several seconds to recognise the strange contraption she’d only seen in paintings from her father’s castle. 

With a lopsided grin, the umbrella swallower winked at the audience… leaving Ruby to wonder if she’d seen those eyes before, those unusual eyes not unlike those of the thief who’d tried to steal from her sister…

“You look lost, little red,” a sultry female voice commented, drawing her from her troubled thoughts. “Are you looking for something? You’d need more flowers than that if you want to form a bouquet.”

“Flowers?” 

Silver eyes scanned her environment, wondering if her magic had gotten moody and scattered haphazard rose petals over her cloak and garments, since that occasionally happened when her emotions spiralled out of control.

As her only response, the woman who just spoke lifted a gloved hand from under a heavy cloak, and crimson petals swirled away from Ruby’s shoulders, dancing through the air around both of them and leaving the southern girl to stare wide-eyed. Could it be that this stranger bore the same magic as Ruby, or could somehow borrow some of Ruby’s power? If that was the case, and this woman looked older and more experienced, perhaps could she serve as a teacher or a guide for the young silver-eyed girl to harness her abilities?

“Your power is quite unique,” the unknown woman commented as if describing the taste of an exotic wine, “it’s a shame the King and his Archmagus are too blind to recognise that.”

“How do you know?” Ruby asked defensively, worried that the whole court may already be aware of the news and mock her upon her return.

“Rumours travel fast. Besides, I was in your shoes some years ago. The Archmagus back then had refused to take me on as his apprentice, no doubt they cast us aside just because we had the misfortune to be born as women.”

“The King says he only wants my protection,” the younger girl countered hesitantly.

The woman chuckled lightly, and though the hood of her cloak cast a shadow over most of her features, the dim light playing onto her pale skin and ebony hair through the dim alleyway revealed she was beautiful.

“He says so, but in truth he’s the one who wants to be protected from you. He’s afraid of what people like you, of what people like  _ us  _ can do with magic. Follow me, and I’ll show you extents to your power you never imagined existed.”

“Why would you do that? What do you want?”

Even in the shade of her black hood, one of the stranger’s eyes gleamed as bright as an ember as she answered.

“You want a master, I want an apprentice,” she said simply. 

* * *

“It is a pleasure to see you here, Your Majesty,” Clover bent down to kiss Queen Winter’s hand as she took her seat facing the arena next to her husband. 

“Likewise, dear Captain, it would have been unbecoming of me not to witness my sister’s performance in the semifinals.”

Even her icily cordial tone and the pale powder concealing the dark bags under her eyes could not cover the wary anxiety that filled every fiber of her being since Robyn had been poisoned.

“I can assure you that Lady Weiss has been fighting admirably,” the guardsman said, “though we are all left to wonder why she decided to enter the tourney this year.”

Indeed, Weiss had been nothing but grace, agility, and poise in the arena. She’d won all of her duels until the semifinals, which had hardly come as a surprise the wealth of her family had granted her with some of the best-manufactured weapons and most accomplished preceptors around the Kingdom from her most tender years. Her trusty rapier alone was a marvel of swordsmithing, cast from Kalambra steel and ornamented with some of the finest jewels from the mines of Arkanys, rendering the sword as beautiful as it was deadly. 

Lady Weiss, of course, knew the workings of her weapon perfectly, how to use its elasticity to deflect attacks in an impenetrable flurry of slashes, how to thrust its sharp point with perfect timing and lethal precision to land a winning strike. The audience could only watch in awe as she danced around each of her opponents, duel after duel, practically playing like a predator with its prey in a lavish display of skill before grazing her adversary’s neck with her sword and claiming an easy victory. 

“If Father enrolled her in the tournament, he must want something out of it.” Winter guessed. “Maybe he thinks it’s time to show her off to the aristocrats at court? To remind them all that she’s in age to be wed?”

“I’d have thought your father would want to keep her longer as a wizard serving the Schnee name, seeing how talented she is and how his eldest daughter is already queen,” Qrow commented from the other side of King James’s throne. “But if he can find her a party anywhere near as excellent as yours, my Queen, I’m sure he wouldn’t hesitate to marry her off.”

Both the King and Queen shot a meaningful glance toward Captain Ebi at that, prompting the knight to stop dead in the process of shoving a raisin in his mouth. Instead, he placed the dried fruit back in the pouch of raisins in his other hand and carefully tied it back while crimson eyes contemplated those large, strong hands working at something so small and delicate. Qrow raised an inquisitive eyebrow, prompting the King to reply to his silent question. 

“Sir Ebi would likely remain a member of my guard for years to come, so despite the hypothetical engagement Lady Weiss would still be able to serve her family in her capacity as a wizard during that time. And when Clover decides to retire, he’ll have his lands in Argus in the west, as well as his allowances from the crown in return for his years of service as the Captain of the royal guard, which is more wealth than most young lords of his age can pretend to, as well as an alliance with one of the main western port cities that would certainly benefit House Schnee. All in all, Captain Ebi would make an exceptional party for Weiss Schnee, or for anyone else for that matter.”

Clover’s cheeks flushed slightly at the praise, grateful for his luck as both remaining semifinalists entering the arena diverted everyone’s attention away from his heated cheeks. Weiss waved and smiled regally, one hand on the hilt of her famed Myrtenaster, while Sir Amin bowed deeply, respectfully, before pushing his hair away from his face. Both drew their weapons with practised gestures, and within a fraction of a second the white-haired girl had charged at her opponent. 

Her attacks were relentless, a storm of slashes punctuated by well-timed thrusts at Marrow from every possible angle. The crowds cheered as she spun gracefully around him, her silver ponytail whipping the air behind her. He stepped back slowly as he parried, blocked, swiveled on his heels to counterattack. A slash of his blade pushed her backward several feet in the sand, and her eyes narrowed in focus as she adjusted her combat stance.

Sir Amin had quickly won each of his fights in previous matches, and it’d been tempting to assume he’d been fortunate and only faced weak opponents. After all, as a newer recruit he remained less renowned than his fellow knights of the Royal Guard, and his success could have been chalked up to beginner’s luck. 

But there wasn’t a sweeping slash, a piercing strike, or a swift kick from Lady Schnee that met its target, that struck an opening, for there was  _ no  _ opening.The King’s eyes widened in surprise - for he’d seen many a soldier fight in his life, but rarely had he seen anyone as capable as Marrow. He’d detected potential in the boy the first time he saw him hold a broom up like a sword, but his progress while training and serving under Clover’s orders must have been astounding. 

The Faunus didn’t have Weiss’s elegant precision, Pyrrha’s acrobatic skill, or even Harriet’s lightning-fast reflexes, such that his style had been dismissed by much of the audience as lackluster. But he was efficient - the exactly right combination of strength and speed, of height and agility, that would allow him to outclass any duellist after more or less time. And while Weiss exhausted herself with increasingly elaborate displays of swift skill and fancy flourishes, he budged no more than a wall would under her barrage of attacks. 

Myrtenaster twirled in her hand the next time she dived in for a strike, and the crowd’s eyes recognised the move as her blade wrapped itself around his. Only a deadly precise flick of her wrist, and she’d usually send her adversary’s sword flying through the air, claiming a swift victory. But Sir Amin expected it just as the audience did, and caught his weapon with his other hand as she tossed it, leaving her blade to curve away from its own elasticity and plant itself into the sand.

The watchers held their breaths as he lifted his sword in both hands for an overhead strike, which she narrowly dodged while still trying to extract her rapier point from the ground. He followed by tracing out an oblique arc, and this time she used her weapon’s elasticity to propel herself into the air, both her boots rebounding on his blade as she stabbed toward his face in mid-air. He sidestepped the blow, and Myrtenaster only grazed his thick doublet, ripping the deep blue fabric at his shoulder. Ignoring the slash that hadn’t pierced his skin, the Faunus only had to catch her wrist before she landed to send her crashing to the floor.

She sputtered sand and blood as she propped herself up, and the judges from the sidelines scrutinised if she’d activate her magic, even reflexively, for such practices were outlawed in duelling. But Sir Amin stood at an almost respectful distance, turning his side to her as if chivalrously allowing her time to get back to her feet. Her pale fingers wiped the dirty sweat from her brow - and then she saw it. 

The fabric of his garment had been torn to reveal part of his back, mapped with a crisscross of scars. Scars that seemed burnt in by glancing blows. As if by the work of a whip. 

Queen Winter’s respiration hitched in her throat. On the King’s other side, Qrow seemed to seek her gaze quizzically, and Ironwood wondered if there was any correlation between the Archmagus’s state of surprise and the clouds suddenly growling, threateningly gray overhead. 

Weiss used her sword like a cane when she stood back up and stepped her right foot forward. Her head was held high, her sword tip higher. 

“The Faunus with the apple, the one your sister punished...” Mage Branwen asked the Queen, “you didn’t remember his name?”

“Now I do,” she whispered back.

In Winter’s mind, he’d been a Faunus. Just a Faunus, just a servant, whipped for bringing a deadly plague into Arkanys. Just a Faunus, who should be grateful he’d been given away as part of a dowry.

Just a Faunus among so many other Faunus, of which such an infinitesimal fraction became knights, much less Royal Guards, just as fortune would have it. 

Maybe fortune willed for the next clash between them to be violent. Steel colliding against steel echoed through the increasingly humid air, and through the diminishing luminosity, her rapier danced so fast hardly anyone could register what just occurred. Before a loud crack was heard, rattling and raking at eardrums throughout the audience. And the top half of Marrow’s blade dropped onto the ground at his feet. 

After the impact, only the superior steel of Myrtenaster remained unbroken. 

While one of his hands held the stump of his weapon, pushing her rapier away with the crossguard, his other fingers were wrapped tightly around her sword-wielding forearm. In the tense silence, the two adversaries wrestled for control over Myrtenaster, his tawny, calloused fingers digging into her ivory skin through her fine lace-trimmed sleeve. The Schnee and the Faunus, pacing around one another while never breaking contact, searching for an opening that couldn’t be found like stalking predator and struggling prey, though it was never clear which was which. Circling like the moon and the sun, the dark and the light, the candle and its shadow, for none could exist without the other despite the endless war they waged... 

A fine drizzle had started tumbling. And Weiss’s pale blue eyes found an opening. Sir Amin’s boots stepped on uneven sand, twisting in a way that exposed his angle. Or at least, she thought she’d found an opening. It was no opening. It was a trap. Or rather, it was a weapon. As she raised her foot to kick at the perceived weak point, he yanked on her arm and stepped back, and she toppled from her own imbalance. 

The ground was already humid when her rapier slipped out of her hand. A pang of worry clogged the Queen’s heart at the sight of her sister, seemingly unable to stand back up, the wet dirt already dying her white skirts in earthy tones. 

Winter remembered the Faunus, how they came back from the mines, their garments covered in grime, with their backs bent after hours of crawling in the dark, damp tunnels, as she and her father stood tall, watching them return from work. 

Winter saw Weiss reach for Myrtenaster, as if about to crawl through the dirt, through the sand, the mud, and the humiliation, under the impenetrable sapphire gaze of the Faunus knight. 

The crowd murmured, but the thunder was louder. 

The crowd watched, but Weiss didn’t move. 

Didn’t crawl. Didn’t grab her sword. Didn’t shift a finger.

Instead, she stared down at the floor, the nape of her neck arched down and exposed like a blossoming lily. His broken sword still rested in his hand, and he could strike down and pick that flower any time if he wanted to. If he wanted to exact his vengeance,to correct the injustice that fate had done onto him, to return the violence of those lashes onto the lady that had once ordered them. If he wanted to seize his chance, his infinitesimal chance he never knew he’d have to settle his score, or grant her his forgiveness, that they would never have again. If he wanted to, she knelt, waiting.

Winter had seen her sister hurt, had heard the sinister squelch of her father’s rings against her cheekbone, the rustles of her heavy skirts as she rolled down the stairs. Had witnessed up close the pallid scar across Weiss’s eyelid that had remained as a result. 

And yet, she’d never seen her sister so vulnerable, so exposed. 

And then, Marrow’s eyes were no longer impenetrable. They were still a thousandfold more blue than the sky, possibly more blue than the sky over the Capital had ever been - but they brimmed with admiration, with respect, perhaps even gratitude. They brimmed with emotion, and the clouds brimmed with tears bound to fall. 

Perhaps the rain started to fall first. Perhaps Sir Amin tossed the remnants of his swords away first, and announced he surrendered, and she won. Perhaps it wasn’t having a soul that granted him his compassion for her, and her strange act of defiance toward the rules of the tourney, toward her father, toward everything and nothing, his admiration for her silent, humble plea for his pardon - after all, everyone knew the Faunus were soulless. Perhaps he’d been right to forgive her. Perhaps he’d been wrong. 

Perhaps all of these were but fickle considerations, for the audience was pleased, satiated with the violence and the sensations it had come to witness, just as the skies were saturated with wind and water, and a storm was rising. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rain is back I’m sorry arghhhh...
> 
> To AmericanWildDog in the comments who suggested the barbecuing of church wizards, good job predicting that, because that’s exactly what Cinder did (she kinda burnt herself to fake her own death too) and Qrow’s gotta agree with her on that one. 
> 
> Do you like long chapters or do you prefer shorter ones and more frequent updates? I’m still trying to stick with my planned 13 chapters, but that might be a crazy idea ehehehe~ Anyway let me know what you thought in the comments, it really helps to see what parts people liked more or less :)
> 
> Next chapter is gonna have more fluff… but also, it’s gonna be a wild ride… stay tuned xx

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think, comments are always appreciated :) The next chapter should roll around on Thursday/Friday. Till then, stay safe and posted xx


End file.
